LECTURES 


WORKS  AND  GENIUS 


WASHINGTON  ALLSTON. 


BY 

WILLIAM    WARE, 

AUTHOR  OF 

ZENOBIA,    AURELIAN,    JULIAN,    &C. 


BOSTON: 
PHILLIPS,    SAMPSON   AND   COMPANY. 

MDCCCLIJ. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1852,  by 

HENRY  WARE, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


TiirnsTox,  TOKRT,  AND  EMERSON,  PRIXTRRS. 


EDITOR'S    PREFACE. 


THE  Lectures  contained  in  this  volume  are  given 
to  the  public,  as  they  were  left  by  the  author,  at 
his  death.  There  might,  perhaps,  be  some  question 
as  to  the  propriety  of  giving  to  the  world  an  unfin- 
ished work  of  criticism  upon  such  a  subject;  but 
the  words  of  the  author  himself,  in  speaking  of 
the  great  unfinished  picture  of  the  Artist,  whose 
name  and  fame  it  was  his  object,  so  far  as  it  was 
in  his  power,  to  make  more  extensively  known 
and  honored  among  us,  furnish  a  sufficient  apology. 
It  seems  to  be,  "  a  work  from  which  lessons  may 
be  drawn  of  use  to  society ;  too  valuable,  too 
beautiful,  too  much  of  it  near  its  completion,  too 
instructive,  in  many  ways,  to  be  rolled  up  forever, 
or  seen  by  a  few  and  hidden  from  the  common 
eye." 

The  preparation  of  these  Lectures  was  a  work 
of  love ;  the  opinions  expressed,  the  result  of  a 


IV  PREFACE 

long  and  loving  study  of  the  subject;  and,  though 
it  may  be  that,  before  publication,  they  would  have 
undergone  some  modification  from  his  own  hand, 
which  that  of  another  cannot  venture  to  undertake, 
it  is  believed  that  they  are  mainly  the  result  of 
careful  study  and  deliberate  conviction. 

The  author,  at  the  time  he  was  suddenly  attacked 
by  his  last  illness,  was  engaged  in  making  arrange- 
ments for  delivering  these  Lectures  in  this  city, 
so  long  the  residence  of  the  illustrious  Artist  and 
Scholar  of  whose  works  and  genius  they  treat.  To 
the  last  sentence,  which  is  here  given  as  it  was 
left  unfinished  by  his  pen,  it  was  the  author's  in- 
tention to  add  a  conclusion  adapted  to  the  circum- 
stances of  the  place,  and  to  the  audience  to  whom 
it  would  have  been  first  addressed. 

CAMBRIDGE,  Massachusetts,  August,  1852. 


THE  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  ALLSTOFS 
GENIUS. 


CONTENTS. 


LECTURE  I. 

THE  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  ALLSTON'S  GENIUS. 

LECTURE  II. 

THE  LESSER  PICTURES. 

LECTURE  III. 

THE  LARGER  PICTURES.— BELSHAZZAR'S  FEAST. 


THE  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  ALLSTOFS 
GENIUS. 


IN  the  Lectures  which  I  propose  to  read 
upon  Mr.  Allston  and  his  works,  upon  his 
works,  rather  than  upon  him,  (upon  him,  only 
incidentally,)  it  will  be  my  object  to  present 
some  account  of  them  ;  in  order  to  increase 
and  extend,  if  it  may  be,  what  I  cannot  but 
regard  as  just  impressions  of  their  value  and 
importance,  to  artists,  to  all  lovers  of  art,  and 
to  the  cultivated  portion  of  society  at  large. 

But,  really,  it  seems  idle  to  think  of  reading 
Lectures  upon  such  a  subject,  so  far  off  and 
dead,  while  our  public  is  all  alive  with 
Liberty,  Intervention,  Hungary  and  Russia, 
French  Revolution,  and  a  thousand  other 
topics  no  less  engrossing ;  —  it  seems  much 
as  if  one  were  to  propose  a  course  upon  the 
1 


*&  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

virtues  and  duties  of  moderate  exercise,  while 
one's  city  was  burning  down.  I  can  look  for 
but  a  few  hearers  under  such  circumstances, 
and  a  few  will  satisfy  my  wishes. 

I  shall  go,  somewhat  minutely,  into  criti- 
cisms of  these  works.  Some  may  think  this 
not  very  well  judged,  as  but  few,  it  may  be 
thought,  can  be  supposed  to  have  seen  them, 
and  but  few,  therefore,  are  able  to  form 
any  opinion  on  what  may  be  offered.  But  I 
believe  that  the  having  seen  them,  or  not, 
would  make  but  little  difference  in  an  easy 
understanding  or  enjoyment  of  the  subject,  to 
any  who  would  enjoy  such  a  subject  at  all. 
It  were  better,  no  doubt,  on  the  whole,  were 
the  memory  familiar  with  the  works  to  be 
named ;  but  it  can,  by  no  means,  be  neces- 
sary. Hardly  more  so  than  it  would  be,  in 
the  reading  of  literary  criticism,  that  all  the 
books  criticised  should  first  have  been  read, 
which  would  be  better,  but  not  essential  to 
the  receiving  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  and 
instruction.  Suppose  some  La  Harpe,  Sis- 
mondi,  Tiraboschi,  were  to  offer  a  course  of 


THE    CRITICISM    OF    WORKS    OF    ART.  O 

lectures  upon  the  History  of  English  Litera- 
ture, how  very  few  could  attend  such  a 
course,  and  how  much  pleasure  and  informa- 
tion would  be  lost,  were  it  to  be  confined  to 
those  only  who  had  read  all  the  volumes 
that  were  to  form  the  subject-matter  of  the 
course. 

For  my  own  part,  I  listen  to  criticisms  on 
pictures,  and  the  works  of  famous  artists,  in 
their  biographies,  or  in  lectures,  with  as  much 
interest,  and  enter  into  them  as  heartily^  as 
to  criticisms  on  any  subjects  purely  literary. 
Descriptions,  I  can  follow  as  readily  as  analy- 
ses of  dramas,  poems,  novels,  histories ;  as 
well  as  details  of  campaigns,  battles,  sieges, 
and  can  come  to  as  intelligent  an  opinion. 
And  this,  without  any  thing  more  being  requi- 
site than  attention ;  with  no  necessity  what- 
ever for  any  particular  acquaintance  with,  or 
knowledge  of,  any.  of  the  purely  mechanical 
departments  of  the  art.  In  fact,  all  the  more 
important  statements  and  criticisms  in  relation 
to  art,  have  a  closer  relation  to  what  is  uni- 
versal in  its  character,  common  alike  to  litera- 


4  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

ture  and  art,  than  to  any  thing  peculiar  and 
restricted.  And  particularly  is  this  true  when 
criticisms  relate  to  a  mind  so  universal  in  its 
tastes  and  attainments  as  that  of  Mr,  Allston. 
With  this  explanation,  I  shall  feel  myself  as 
fully  justified  in  any  minuteness  of  detail  in 
my  subject,  as  I  should,  in  the  case  of  an  exclu- 
sively literary  topic.  Yet  shall  I  be  none  the 
less  anxious  to  avoid  the  too  much  and  the 
too  minute.  I  shall  hope  not  to  make  my 
subject  tedious,  though  I  naturally  experience 
some  apprehensions. 

Before  I  proceed  to  the  particular  enume- 
ration of  Mr.  Allston's  characteristics  as  an 
artist,  I  wish  to  glance  at  some  of  the  foun- 
dations and  reasons  of  his  eminence  and 
success. 

In  the  first  place,  Mr.  Allston  was  prepared 
for  a  successful  career  by  his  general  cultiva- 
tion. This  should  be  well  considered  by  the 
young  aspirant.  It  had  much  to  do  in  his 
case,  and  always,  in  any  case,  must  have 
much  to  do,  with  success.  I  do  not  enter 
into  the  question  of  his  natural  genius,  how 


THE    FOUNDATIONS    OF    HIS    EMINENCE.  5 

great  it  was,  as  a  reason  and  explanation  of 
his  eminence  ;  nor,  to  what  extent  his  fame 
was  owing  to  genius,  rather  than  to  his  cul- 
ture of  it.  We  never  can  know  or  tell  how 
much  God  has  originally  given,  nor  how 
much  withheld.  All  that  we  can  affirm,  in 
any  case,  with  certainty  is,  whether  any  thing, 
and  if  any  thing,  how  much,  man  has  done. 
If  much,  it  will  be  fair  and  right  to  ascribe 
to  culture  much  of  the  grand  total  of  success. 
If  absolutely  nothing,  or  but  little,  then  the 
eminence,  if  manifested,  will  be,  as  justly, 
ascribed  to  God,  or  to  genius.  But  I  can  call 
to  mind  scarce  an  instance  of  a  transcendently 
great  artist,  who  was  great,  independently  of 
labor,  and  great  labor.  In  literature,  Shaks- 
peare  comes  nearer  than  any  other  human 
being,  to  the  case  of  pure,  exclusive  genius. 
We  have  no  evidence  that  he  ever  was  a 
scholar  or  student,  that  he  ever  did  any 
thing  save  merely  to  transcribe  the  ideas 
that  crowded  upon  his  mind  ;  only,  that  he  is 
known  to  have  hunted  through  volumes  of 
old  novels,  histories  and  translations,  for  the 


O  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTOX. 

themes  of  his  plots.  Homer,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  other  great  genius  of  the  world,  as 
he  began  life  as  a  schoolmaster,  may,  with 
reason,  be  supposed  to  have  been  a  man  of 
work,  more  or  less, — most  likely  more.  Not 
at  all,  that  I  am  inclined  to  deny  or  underrate 
genius,  in  comparison  with  labor,  in  art.  I 
believe  that  in  art,  as  in  literature,  there  is  the 
greatest  inequality  conceivable  in  the  human 
powers.  I  would  as  soon  believe  that  all  men 
and  women  are  born  equally  handsome,  well- 
shaped,  or  strong,  as  that  they  are  created 
equal  in  intellectual  power ;  —  as  soon  be- 
lieve that  the  ugly  may  be  made  beautiful  by 
washes  and  unguents,  the  crooked,  straight,  by 
mechanical  appliances,  as  that  any  efforts  of 
labor  can  ever  supply  a  natural  intellectual 
deficiency.  But  I  think  that,  generally,  they 
who  have  been  preeminently  indebted  to  na- 
ture for  their  superiority,  are  they,  who  have 
added  as  much  as  ever  nature  did  for  them, 
by  their  own  efforts.  Particularly  was  that 
so  with  those  intellectual  giants,  Da  Vinci, 
Michael  Angelo,  and  Raffaelle.  Without  their 


HIS    INTELLECTUAL    CULTURE.  / 

unremitting,  herculean  labors,  what  would 
they  have  been,  with  all  their  genius?  In  all 
the  instances  of  Allston's  peculiar  success,  we 
cannot  conceive  of  that  success  being  attained 
without  all  of  that  application  by  which  he 
was  distinguished.  And  really,  without  such 
application,  no  one  knows  what  his  genius  is, 
nor  how  great.  Claude  was  a  remarkable  in- 
stance of  this.  In  color,  which  was  Allston's 
grand  distinction,  though  feeling,  or  genius, 
was  its  foundation,  the  most  pains-taking 
labors  could  alone  have  raised  the  superstruc- 
ture. 

In  the  first  suggestion  of  his  subjects  and 
their  management,  how  much  must  he  not 
have  been  indebted  to  his  general  cultivation 
of  mind!  How  much  must  it  not  have  added 
to  the  general  dignity  of  his  character,  and 
imparted  the  vigor,  grace  and  elegance  of 
learning,  to  his  design !  No  one  can  look 
upon  the  works  that  come  from  his  hand, 
without  perceiving,  at  a  glance,  his  indebted- 
ness to  the  highest  intellectual  culture  ;  in  the 
same  way  as  one  would,  from  reading  such 
poetry  as  Bryant's,  or  such  prose  as  Irving's. 


8  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

Another  explanation  of  Allston's  eminence, 
was  the  truthfulness  and  earnestness  of  his 
mind,  its  simplicity  and  unselfishness,  the 
noble  and  elevated  principles  on  which  he 
acted  and  pursued  his  art.  He  made  pic- 
tures, not,  that  they  might  be  sold  and  enrich 
him  ;  not,  that  they  might  bring  him  reputa- 
tion now,  and  fame  afterwards  ;  not,  that  he 
might  eclipse  others,  and  throw  them  into  the 
shade  ;  from  that  he  shrunk  with  instinctive 
horror ;  but,  because  he  loved  and  honored  his 
art  on  its  own  account ;  because,  through  it, 
as  a  medium,  he  could  express  himself  in  the 
best  way  possible  to  him ;  because,  in  this 
manner  only,  could  he  reveal  to  others  his  con- 
ceptions of  the  beautiful,  the  grand,  the  divine. 
He  certainly  had  a  proper  regard  for  the  prices 
which  his  works  would  bring ;  he  was  to  live 
by  his  art ;  and  he  demanded  the  full  sum 
which  he  thought  they  were  worth,  as  a 
matter  of  just  self-respect,  but  he  made  no 
demand  till  he  had  made  the  very  picture 
which  he  wished  to  make,  and  as  he  wished 
to  make  it.  He  loved  reputation  ;  but  would 


HIS    CHOICE    OF    SUBJECTS.  9 

seek  or  accept  it,  only  as  the  fair  reward  of 
labors  honestly  and  entirely  his  own,  both  in 
the  conception  and  the  execution,  and  com- 
pleted up  to  the  highest  mark  of  his  ability. 
In  regard  to  the  particular  subject  of  any 
picture,  he  chose  it,  not,  for  any  reason  of  mo- 
mentary popularity,  or,  because  it  would  sell 
well,  or  exhibit  well,  nor  at  the  urgency  of 
others,  nor  for  any  idle  whim  or  fancy  ;  but 
because  he  himself  had  fallen  in  love  with  it, 
and  he  could  not  rest  till  it  was  done  ;  his 
imagination  was  inflamed,  and  the  fire  spread 
and  communicated  power  to  his  whole  being. 
He  then  was  in  a  condition  to  work,  and  he 
worked,  as  a  man,  then  only,  does.  When  a 
man  paints  a  picture,  or  does  any  kind  of 
work,  on  such  principles,  he  works  well.  He 
paints,  sculptures,  writes  well.  A  book,  poem, 
novel,  history,  written  in  such  a  way,  stands  a 
chance  of  being  read  longer  than  while  the 
ink  is  drying.  To  draw  an  illustration  from 
my  own  profession,  sermons  written  in  this 
way  only,  are  good  ones.  An  eminent  ser- 
monizer  of  our  own  time,  I  have  heard  say,  that 


10  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

he  would  not  begin  to  write  a  sermon,  let  what 
would  happen,  till  he  knew  what  to  write 
about  (what  a  censure  on  most  of  us!)  nor 
only  that,  not  till  he  had  found  something 
that  he  wanted  to  say,  and  believed  he  knew 
how  to  say.  And  he  waited  often,  weeks  and 
weeks,  before  he  could  move.  But,  when  the 
work  was  done,  it  was  done  ;  the  man  was  in 
the  sermon  ;  and  whatever  there  was  in  him 
of  intellectual  or  moral  power,  these  passed 
over  to  the  hearer  and  possessed  him ;  it  was 
so,  so  only,  that  Allston  undertook  his  pictures. 
They  are,  in  no  instance,  painted  without  the 
deepest  meditation  and  the  profoundest  study. 
This  is  obvious  to  any  one  who  knows  any 
thing  about  them.  He  has,  in  each  case,  found 
a  thought  which  he  wished  to  utter,  which 
he  was  burning  to  utter,  into  which,  then,  by 
degrees  and  by  prolonged  study,  he  concen- 
trated every  faculty,  affection,  knowledge  of 
his  mind.  Then  he  painted  ;  and  to  say  that 
he  succeeded,  is  only  to  proclaim  a  natural, 
irresistible  effect,  of  the  means  and  methods 
employed. 


HIS    CONSCIENTIOUSNESS.  11 

This,  undoubtedly,  was  the  principal  reason, 
why,  comparatively,  and,  for  a  person  of  his 
power,  he  painted  so  few  pictures.  He  could 
not  paint  many  done  in  that  way.  A  man  so 
thoroughly  conscientious,  who  made  a  con- 
science of  his  art,  could  not  make  many  ;  too 
many  conditions  were  to  be  satisfied  for  that. 
Had  he  been  willing  to  paint  pictures  on  the 
principles  on  which  so  many  make  them, 
men,  too,  who  have  been  eminent  in  their  pro- 
fession, he  might  easily  have  rolled  in  wealth, 
instead  of  dying,  as  he  did,  in  a  more  honor- 
able poverty.  But  whether,  in  that  way,  his 
reputation  would  have  gained,  is  another  thing. 

Mr.  Allston's  mind  was  a  religious  mind  — 
another  reason  of  his  success.  He  looked  at 
subjects,  as  he  looked  at  nature,  through  a 
religious  medium.  Every  thing  was  colored 
by  it  to  his  eye.  This  was  a  great  happiness 
to  him,  as  a  man,  as  it  was  a  great  additional 
source  of  power,  as  an  artist.  Beato  Angelico 
was  not  more  a  religious  man  than  he  —  nor 
Overbeck  ;  religious  in  no  one-sided,  technical 
sense,  but  in  the  universal  sense.  He  was, 


12  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

indeed,  of  a  particular  church  ;  but  he  was,  in 
religion,  what  he  so  emphatically  declared 
himself  in  art,  a  wide  liker ;  by  charity  in 
religion,  and  benevolence  in  art,  he  was  alike 
distinguished.  It  is  delightful  once  more  to 
see  religion  in  so  close  alliance  with  art.  If 
an  undevout  astronomer  is  mad,  what  shall  be 
said  of  the  artist  ?  One  would  think  it  could 
hardly  be  otherwise,  than  that  the  student  of 
nature,  for  the  simple,  beautiful  ends  of  art, 
should  be  religious,  in  the  sense  of  a  devo- 
tional mind  ;  penetrated  with  sentiments  of 
reverence  and  love,  for  the  grandeur  and  the 
loveliness  of  the  Creator's  works.  Were  it 
oftener  so,  it  is  easy  to  see  what  a  spirit  of 
elevation  it  would  necessarily  communicate  to 
art,  to  what  a  different  class  of  subjects  it 
would  lead  the  mind,  to  what  a  different 
manner  of  treating  them ;  in  a  word,  into  how 
different,  and  more  exalted  a  state  it  would 
bring  it,  and  from  how  much  loftier  a  point  it 
would  view  all  subjects  that  came  within  its 
sphere.  It  will  not  necessarily  declare  itself 
by  the  selection  and  treatment  of  subjects  dis- 


RELIGIOUS    REVERENCE.  13 

tinctively  religious.  By  no  means.  Though 
it  will  naturally  do  this,  occasionally.  It  will 
rather,  reveal  itself  indirectly,  but  only  the 
more  powerfully.  And  here,  one  cannot  but 
sometimes  regret,  and  yet,  with  misgivings, 
that,  while  Allston  was  so  eminently  of  a 
religious  spirit,  it  should  not,  oftener,  have 
drawn  him  away  from  his  devotion  to  the 
purely  beautiful  ;  that  it  should  never,  in  a 
single  instance,  have  led  him  for  his  theme,  to 
the  New  Testament.  But  I  am  inclined  to 
think  that  it  was  his  religious  reverence  that 
deterred  him  —  no  indifference  ;  that  scriptu- 
ral subjects,  the  only  ones  that  would  prove 
attractive  to  him,  which  another  might  treat, 
with  no  doubt  as  to  their  fitness  and  propriety, 
he  could  not  touch,  at  all,  or  without  trem- 
bling; without  trembling  too  much  to  com- 
mand a  free  use  of  his  powers,  or  even  think 
it  right  to  use  them  so  at  all.  This  is  but  a 
conjecture,  but  plausible,  as  it  seems  to  me. 

Since  writing  this  as  a  conjecture,  I  have 
been  happy  to  find  the  conjecture  verified  in 
a   brief  article   written   by  Dr.  Channing  at 
2 


14  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

the  time  of  Mr.  Allston's  death,  to  whom  he 
distinctly  declared,  that  "He  never  could  make 
that  person,  or  those  characters,  Christ  and 
his  Apostles,  subjects  of  his  art." 

Another  foundation  of  his  eminence  was,  * 
that  he  so  often  painted  upon  a  large  -scale, 
the  scale  of  life,  or  colossal,  that  it  led  to 
the  formation,  not  only  of  a  correct,  but  an 
elevated  hand,  to  the  avoiding  of  all  that  class 
of  faults,  and  all  that  sort  of  looseness  and 
littleness  of  manner,  the  attendant  and  result 
of  confinement  to  diminutive  forms,  and  pic- 
tures of  cabinet  size.  The  schools  do  wisely, 
when  the  absolute  requisition  is  made  of  the 
pupil,  that  every  drawing  shall  be  made  of 
the  size  of  life,  or,  otherwise,  collossal.  It 
leads,  with  certainty,  to  correctness  and  truth 
of  form,  and  gradually,  to  a  grand  style  of 
drawing,  and  even  higher  style  of  thinking 
and  designing.  It  elevates  the  mind  as  well 
as  improves  the  hand.  On  the  other  hand,* 
beneath  drawings  on  a  diminutive  scale,  are 
safely  hidden  away  a  thousand  inaccuracies 


THE    MINIATURE    SCALE.  15 

and  errors,  which  the  observer  cannot  distin- 
guish nor  detect  to  be  such.  It  is  impossible 
to  judge,  in  such  a  case,  whether  the  work 
of  an  artist  be  correct  or  not.  The  very 
power  to  judge  is  taken  away.  In  reply  to 
this,  it  would  be  a  mere  sophism  to  maintain 
that,  because  the  drawing  of  the  human  form 
should  be  of  the  size  of  life,  or  more,  houses 
and  trees  should  be  as  well,  to  be  judged 
true.  All  that  is  meant  is,  that  all  objects 
shall  be  of  such  a  size,  that  the  eye  shall  be 
easily  capable  to  make  such  comparisons  with 
reality,  as  to  be  able  to  discriminate  between 
what  is  correct  and  incorrect ;  which  cannot 
be  done  when  the  scale  is  miniature.  Accus- 
tomed to  the  large  scale,  the  eye,  at  once, 
detects  the  faulty,  in  one's  own  work,  or  in 
another's.  But,  much  more  than  this,  it  ele- 
vates the  general  style  of  art,  impresses  upon 
it,  more  than  any  other  cause,  I  believe,  that 
grand  manner,  as  it  is  termed,  in  the  way  of 
thinking  and  drawing,  which  gave  its  sublime 
character  to  the  era  of  the  fifteenth  and  six- 
teenth centuries. 


16  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

And,  to  my  mind,  one  of  the  prominent 
causes  of  the  decline  of  art  at  the  close  of 
those  centuries,  was  the  fall  of  the  Catholic 
Church ;  for,  with  that  church  disappeared  the 
broad  field  for  the  exercise  of  art,  on  that 
scale  essential  to  its  grandeur.  During  the 
centuries  just  named,  fresco  was  the  kind  of 
art  universally  employed.  The  vast  panels 
for  that  art  were  furnished  by  nothing  less 
than  the  walls  and  ceilings  of  churches  and 
cathedrals.  The  colossal  was  the  scale  em- 
ployed ;  this,  of  itself,  was  enough  to  stamp 
a  character  of  grandeur  upon  art.  The  intel- 
lectual and  mechanical  advantage  derived  from 
that  sweep  of  the  arm  which  designing  on 
so  vast  a  scale,  imparts,  can  hardly  be  enough 
appreciated.  Add  to  this,  that,  as  far  as  the 
church  was  concerned,  it  was  religion  that 
alone  supplied  the  subjects  for  the  pencil,  and 
no  other  cause  can  be  needed  to  account  for 
the  elevation  to  which  painting  was  raised  at 
that  time.  The  rise  and  predominance  of 
Protestantism,  while  it  gave  new  life  to  Reli- 
gion, struck  Art  with  a  palsy,  from  which  it 


THE    CATHOLIC    CHURCH.  17 

seems  as  if  it  could  never  recover,  nor,  per- 
haps, ever  will,  till  some  new  Church  shall 
arise,  which,  bent  on  truth,  not  on  party, 
shall  not  be  afraid  to  revive  all  that  was  good, 
beautiful  in  the  elder  church,  while  it  still 
prosecutes  its  work  of  reform.  Ages  often  drop, 
and  leave  forgotten  behind,  treasures  as  choice 
as  any  new  ones  they  may  find  on  the  road, 
or  invent,  as  they  go  along.  Such  effects  as 
these  named  have  not  universally  followed,  of 
course,  nor  has  art  universally  declined,  but  that 
it  has  suffered  very  materially,  none  can  doubt. 
Allston's  paintings  of  the  human  form,  with 
but  few  exceptions,  were  of  the  size  of  life,  or 
larger.  This  was  one  cause  of  his  excellence. 

Another  cause  of  his  success,  which  I  may 
name,  was  the  conscientious  exactness  with 
which  he  finished,  to  the  utmost  of  his  ability, 
every  work  which  he  undertook.  The  labor, 
toil,  finish  of  art  could  go  no  further  than  in 
the  case  of  this  brilliant  artist,  who  was  never 
so  solicitous  to  achieve  a  great  work,  or  extend 
his  reputation,  or  to  gather  laurels,  as  he  was 


18 


LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 


to  finish,  with  almost  Dutch  minuteness,  what- 
ever labor  he  had  commenced  and  promised. 

I  turn,  now,  to  some  of  the  characteristics 
of  Mr.  Allston's  art.  I  shall  take  up  these 
points :  Mr.  Allston's  color ;  his  appreciation 
of  character,  or  power  of  expression ;  his  love 
of  beauty  ;  and  his  feeling  for  the  sublime  ; 
but  with  no  severe  strictness  of  method. 

The  grand,  distinguishing  characteristic  of 
Mr.  Allston,  as  an  artist,  that  which,  at  once, 
raises  him,  not  only  above  our  own  artists,  but 
I  am  equally  clear,  above  all  others,  certainly 
of  the  present  day,  is  Color.  He  was  great  in 
many  ways,  but  greatest  there  ;  for  one,  I  am 
ready  to  say,  unapproached.  And,  it  is  to  be 
observed,  that,  to  excel  in  color,  is  to  excel 
in  by  no  means  an  inferior  department  of  art. 
Excepting  only,  in  the  purely  intellectual  power 
of  the  conception  and  composition  of  those 
grand  designs  which  express  the  greatest 
thoughts  of  genius,  and  which  have  filled  the 
world  with  works  that  can  never  die,  which 
have  lived  for  ages,  and  will  live  for  ages  to 
come,  in  the  admiration  of  successive  genera- 


GENIUS.  19 

tions  —  Color,  in  its  perfection,  more  than  any 
thing  else,  proves  an  original  mind,  proclaims 
that  gift  of  nature  which  we  describe  by  the 
word  genius  ;  an  excellence  to  be  acquired  by 
no  labor,  no  art,  no  teaching,  by  no  processes 
of  reason,  by  no  search  after  principles.  None 
can  teach  it  to  another;  none  can  learn  it 
from  another.  It  is  a  feeling,  an  instinct,  a 
heaven-given,  heaven-born  virtue ;  a  thing 
that  God  gives,  which  man  cannot  otherwise 
possess.  It  may  be  approximated,  more  or 
less  remotely,  by  effort,  study,  and  imitation, 
but  not  reached.  We  call  it  appropriately, 
genius  ;  it  is  nothing  else.  More  strictly,  is 
this  great  excellence  of  color,  thus  denomi- 
nated, than  even  the  power  I  first  named, 
invention  and  composition.  If,  to  a  knowl- 
edge and  skill  in  form,  be  added  the  highest 
intellectual  culture,  in  a  mind  of  great  natural 
vigor,  one  can  easily  suppose  that  the  mind  of 
an  artist  may  be  so  far  exalted,  that  he  shall 
be  able  to  conceive  and  express  subjects  the 
most  subtle  and  the  most  complex,  with  that 
perfection,  that  both  the  requisitions  of  logic 


20  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

and  of  the  imagination  shall  be  fully  satisfied. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  as  to  the  feeling,  by 
which  the  brush  shall  be  arrested,  at  the  point 
when  absolute  truth  and  absolute  beauty  shall 
be  reached,  in  the  color  of  a  head,  the  tint  of 
a  sky,  or  the  gradations  of  a  distance  ;  this  is 
native  in  the  soul,  and,  like  the  perception  of 
color  itself,  is  a  grace  beyond  the  art  of  teach- 
ing or  learning.  Unless  schools  and  masters 
can  work  miracles,  they  can  do  nothing.  I  say 
they  are  powerless  to  reach  perfection.  To 
borrow  an  illustration  from  a  kindred  depart- 
ment, color,  is  to  painting,  what  the  choice  of 
words  is,  to  style,  in  literature.  The  highest 
graces  of  style,  as  every  body  knows,  are 
beyond  the  reach  of  professors,  and  cannot  be 
imparted  by  them,  even  though  they  be  models 
themselves.  Errors  can  be  corrected  and  faults 
amended,  to  any  extent,  but  beauty,  grace, 
cannot  be  imparted,  any  more  than  beauty  and 
grace  of  movement  can  be  imparted,  by  the 
dancing-master,  to  the  body  which  nature  has 
constructed  awkwardly.  All  the  wisdom  and 
genius  of  Universities,  cannot  make  a  single 


STYLE.  21 

Addison  or  Goldsmith  or  Irving  out  of  a  raw 
material  designed  by  Heaven  for  something 
very  different.  In  truth,  the  more  style  is 
taught  by  laborious  processes,  the  further,  I 
believe,  it  flees  from  the  love-sick  votary.  It 
is  an  impalpable  essence,  that  eludes,  like 
some  airy  phantom,  the  grasp  of  him  who 
attempts  to  seize  it.  Imitators  may^  herd 
around  a  great  man  who  has  originated  a 
transcendent  excellence ;  and  imitation  will 
produce  resemblance,  but  nothing  more, — no 
real  excellence  ;  and  a  far  inferior  grace,  if 
original,  is  worth  it  all.  A  copyist  is  he  who 
must  be  considered  as,  least  of  all,  hopeful  of 
any  good  and  lasting  success.  The  color  of 
Palma,  Correggio,  Titian,  cannot  be  taught  or 
learned.  Titian  was  surrounded  by  scholars, 
yet  not  one  of  them  equalled  Titian.  To 
himself  and  his  pupils,  there  were  common,  the 
same  pigments,  the  same  vehicles,  the  same 
tools  and  other  mechanical  contrivances.  They 
might  stand  by  and  watch  the  miraculous  hand 
as  it  laid  on  the  tints  ;  but  it  all  availed  not,  till 
the  genius  to  use  the  fools  and  the  methods 


22  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

could  be  imparted  as  well ;  in  short,  till  one 
mind  could  be  inserted  into  another.  I  do  not 
believe  that  a  single  process  was  concealed 
from  those  whom  he  professed  to  teach.  I 
believe  that  he  freely  imparted  all  the  artifices 
or  tricks  of  color,  which  he  himself  practised 
or  knew.  And,  if  pupils  were,  in  any  case,  as 
I  have  seen  affirmed  by  some  writers,  not  per- 
mitted to  overlook  him  at  work,  a  much  more 
probable  explanation  of  the  fact  may  be  found 
in  the  unwillingness  which  any  one  who  has 
secured  a  great  reputation,  will  naturally  feel, 
to  admit  witnesses  of  the  blunders,  mistakes, 
changes,  and  alterations,  through  which  he  is 
seen  to  work  his  difficult  way  to  what,  at  last, 
seems  so  perfect,  and  which  he  would  rather 
have  believed  to  have  leaped  from  the  brain 
at  once,  full  armed,  in  all  its  panoply  of  beauty 
and  glory.  Such  changes  seem  a  confession  of 
infirmity  ;  erroneously,  but  naturally  enough. 
In  the  same  way,  Allston  made  no  secret  of 
his  art.  He  was  no  quack,  dealing  with  hidden 
nostrums.  He  was  ever  ready  to  impart  to 
any  who  sought  him,  the  materials  he  used, 


TITIAN ALLSTON.  23 

and  to  describe  the  order  and  succession  of  his 
tints,  and  all  the  various  ojther  processes  by 
which  he  produced  his  wonderful  results.  But 
on  whom  has  the  mantle  of  his  genius  fallen  ? 
Some  few  learned  so  far  as  to  catch  some 
of  his  more  obvious  peculiarities ;  but,  of  his 
unrivalled  carnations,  no  one,  I  believe,  ever 
attempted  an  imitation.  Any  one  must  see 
that  it  is  the  native  eye,  the  heaven-descended 
feeling  for  color,  which  makes  the  consummate 
artist ;  that  this  is  a  mental  attribute,  and  lies, 
not  in  the  cunning  hand,  alone ;  and  that,  in 
truth,  the  hand  has  cunning  only  because  the 
mind  has  it  first. 

This  original  genius  for  color  was  eminently 
Titian's,  Correggio's,  Allston's.  I  am  not  afraid 
to  place  those  names  in  immediate  juxtaposi- 
tion, though  Allston  himself  might  have  shrunk 
from  the  distinction.  If  any  one  will  compare 
the  coloring  of  Allston  with  that  of  Titian, 
he  will  perceive  that,  while  the  results  are 
different,  so  as  to  prove  a  proper  independence 
of  one  over  the  other,  the  one  is  not  inferior 
to  the  other.  I  am  ready  to  say  this  de- 


24  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

liberately,  and  with  my  most  entire  conviction 
of  its  tmexaggerated  truth.  I  may  be  mistaken, 
of  course,  but  such  is  my  opinion.  And  this 
obliges  me  to  add,  that  I  cannot,  willingly, 
yield  to  many,  a  power  of  discrimination  in 
respect  to  truth  of  color.  When  I  knew,  a 
few  years  ago,  that  I  was  about  to  have  an 
opportunity  to  see  the  works  of  Titian,  I 
examined,  with  renewed  attention,  all  the  best 
examples  of  Allston  ;  and  when,  after  a  care- 
ful study  of  very  many  of  the  best  instances  of 
Titian's  pencil,  I  returned,  and,  with  that  ex- 
perience fresh  in  my  mind,  again  reexamined 
the  best  works  of  Allston,  I  felt  that,  in  the 
great  Venetian,  I  had  found  nothing  more  true, 
nothing  more  beautiful,  nothing  more  perfect, 
than  I  had  already  seen  in  Allston.  I  cannot 
but  think  that  most  persons,  who  should  go 
through  the  same  process,  would  arrive  at  the 
same  result.  When  I  passed  from  the  Venus 
to  the  Valentine,  I  could  acknowledge  no 
falling  off.  The  hues  of  the  one  were  no  less 
perfect  than  those  of  the  other.  It  was  nature 
in  both,  and  nature  when  most  beautiful. 


OCCASIONAL    FAILURES.  25 

They  both  sought  to  represent  nature  when 
adorned,  and  adorned  the  most.  There  was 
no  Tuscan  nor  Doric,  in  their  style ;  it  was 
more  even  than  Corinthian.  Nor  was  their 
taste  ever  at  fault,  though  they  so  preferred, 
and  practised,  the  gorgeous.  Their  hues  never 
glare  upon  the  eye.  All  the  deepest  and  rich- 
est tints  are  there,  but  in  such  harmonious 
union,  that  a  divine  simplicity  seems  the  only 
result.  Just  as  in  nature,  we  know,  it  is  a 
complexity  which  baffles  all  comprehensions, 
by  which  every  hue  is  produced  which  gives 
enchantment  to  a  landscape,  to  the  color  of  a 
cheek  or  a  hand.  In  the  case  of  such  artists, 
their  colors  are  so  broken,  and  mingled,  and 
contrasted,  that  no  one  tint  ever  predominates 
and  stares  upon  the  eye  ;  art  is  concealed  and 
buried  beneath  nature. 

But  it  need  hardly  be  said  that  Allston  was 
not  always,  equally  felicitous,  even  in  color, 
where  he  most  excelled.  This  should  be 
remembered  by  all  who  would  judge  or  criti- 
cise him.  It  is  only  right  and  fair  that  the 
opinion  should  be  formed  of  him,  of  what  he 


26 


LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 


was,  and  of  what  he  could  do,  by  the  finest  ex- 
amples of  his  power.  Sometimes,  he  seemed, 
for  a  while,  to  have  lost  the  delicacy  of  his 
eye  and  truth  of  his  feeling,  as  well  as  the 
cunning  of  his  hand  ;  as,  for  instance,  in  that 
picture  called  the  Amy  Robsart.  But  this 
cannot  be  accounted  strange  or  unusual.  The 
same  occasional  inferiority  of  hand  is  to  be 
noted  in  Titian,  Correggio  ;  many  a  pic- 
ture by  those  masters  could  hardly  be  deter- 
mined, by  evidence  alone,  to  be  the  work  of 
their  pencil.  But  much  the  greater  part  of  all 
that  came  from  Allston's  hand,  whether  his- 
tory, ideal  portrait,  landscape,  or  still  life,  is 
sufficiently  marked  by  his  felicitous  and  pecu- 
liar touch  and  color,  to  show  the  same  mastery 
over  nature,  and  reveal  the  same  inimitable 
beauties.  The  most  perfect  examples  of  Alls- 
ston's  color  may  be  found,  I  think,  in  the  Jere- 
miah and  the  Valentine,  in  the  Spanish  Girl, 
and  in  portions  of  the  Belshazzar.  There  are 
many  others  which  are  little  inferior  to  these. 
I  single  out  these  ;  the  first,  for  the  most  per- 
fect example  of  flesh  color,  and  the  Jeremiah 


EXAMPLES    OF    COLOR.  27 

for  the  variety  of  color  manifested,  and  for  the 
perfection  with  which  such  a  variety  of  tints 
is  managed,  for  producing  a  unity  of  effect  be- 
yond any  thing  that  could  be  well  imagined  ; 
a  harmony,  rich  and  delicious  like  the  Fifth 
Symphony  of  Beethoven,  —  or  one  of  nature's 
sunsets,  when  all  her  infinite  pallette  is  em- 
ployed, with  all  her  inexhaustible  resources. 

I  have  just  mentioned  that  there  may  be 
the  greatest  inequality  in  the  color  of-  a  great 
colorist.  The  reason  for  it  is  found  in  the 
very  definition  given  of  this  process,  as,  in 
its  perfection,  being  the  result  of  feeling  or 
genius,  rather  than  the  result,  even  of  the  most 
scientific  and  careful  education.  Genius  is 
proverbially  unequal.  The  work  which  is  the 
result  of  feeling,  not  science,  cannot  but  be  so. 
The  fortunate  execution  which  was  yester- 
day's achievement,  cannot,  with  any  certainty, 
be  repeated  to-day  ;  the  drawing  may  be,  but 
not  the  color.  That  execution  was  good  for- 
tune, it  was  nothing  that  can  be  done  again 
with  absolute  certainty  of  the  same  result. 
The  results  of  genius  must  always  possess 


28  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

this  uncertainty.  Talent,  on  the  other  hand, 
which  works  under  the  guidance  of  accurate 
knowledge  and  settled  principles,  moves  in 
one  and  the  same  direction,  and  accomplishes, 
with  little  error,  the  same  foreseen,  predeter- 
mined ends.  So  that,  while  great  designers 
are  commonly  equal  to  themselves,  great  col- 
orists  are  much  less  so.  I  do  not  mean  to 
imply  that  these  things  are  true,  without  ex- 
ception, and  in  every  degree,  but,  commonly, 
and  in  some  good  degree. 

For  the  Valentine,  I  may  say,  though  to 
some,  it  may  seern  an  extravagance,  I  have 
never  been  able  to  invent  the  terms  that 
would  sufficiently  express  my  admiration  of 
that  picture  —  I  mean,  of  its  color  ;  though,  as 
a  whole,  it  is  admirable  for  its  composition,  for 
the  fewness  of  the  objects  admitted,  for  the 
simplicity  and  naturalness  of  their  arrange- 
ment. But  the  charm  is  in  the  color  of  the 
flesh,  of  the  head,  and  of  the  two  hands.  The 
subject  is,  a  young  woman  reading  a  letter, 
holding  the  open  letter  with  both  the  hands. 
The  art  can  go  no  further,  nor,  as  I  believe, 


THE    VALENTINE.  29 

/ 

has  it  ever  gone  any  further.  Some  pigments 
or  artifices  were  unfortunately  used,  which 
have  caused  the  surface  to  crack,  and  which 
require  the  picture  now  to  be  looked  at,  at  a 
further  remove  than  the  work,  on  its  own 
account,  needs  or  requires  ;  it  even  demands  a 
nearer  approach,  in  order  to  be  well  seen,  than 
these  cracks  will  permit.  But  these  accidental 
blemishes  do  not  materially  interfere  with  the 
appreciation  and  enjoyment  of  the  picture.  It 
has,  what  I  conceive  to  be,  that  most  rare 
merit  —  it  has  the  same  universal  hue  of  nature 
and  truth,  in  both  the  shadows  and  the  lights 
which  Nature  has,  but  Art  almost  never, 
and  which  is  the  great  cross  to  the  artist. 
The  great  defect,  and  the  great  difficulty,  in 
imitating  the  hues  of  flesh,  lies  in  the  shadows 
and  the  half-shadows.  You  will  often  ob- 
serve, in  otherwise  excellent  works  of  the  most 
admirable  masters,  that,  the  moment  their 
pencil  passes  to  the  shadows  of  the  flesh,  es- 
pecially the  half-shadows,  truth,  though  not 
always  a  certain  beauty;  forsakes  them.  The 
shadows  are  true  in  their  degree  of  dark,  but 
3* 


30  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

false  in  tone  and  hue.  They  are  true  sha- 
dows, but  not  true  flesh.  You  see  the  form 
of  a  face,  neck,  arm,  hand,  in  shadow,  but  not 
flesh  in  shade  ;  and,  were  that  portion  of  the 
form  sundered  from  its  connection  with  the 
body,  it  could  never  be  told,  by  its  color  alone, 
what  it  was  designed  to  be.  Allston's  won- 
derful merit  is,  (and  it  was  Titian's,)  that  the 
hue  of  life  and  flesh  is  the  same  in  the  shadows, 
as  in  the  light.  It  is  not  only  shadow  or  dark, 
but  it  is  flesh  in  shadow.  The  shadows  of 
most  artists,  even  very  distinguished  ones,  are 
green,  or  brown,  or  black,  or  lead  color,  and 
have  some  strong  and  decided  tint  other  than 
that  of  flesh.  The  difficulty,  with  most,  seems 
to  have  been  so  insuperable,  that  they  cut  the 
knot  at  a  single  blow,  and  surrendered  the 
shadows  of  the  flesh,  as  an  impossibility,  to 
green,  or  brown,  or  black.  And,  in  the  general 
imitation  of  the  flesh  tints,  the  greatest  artists 
have  apparently  abandoned  the  task  in  despair, 
and  contented  themselves  with  a  correct  utter- 
ance of  form  and  expression,  with  well  har- 
monized darks  and  lights,  with  little  attention 


COLOR.  31 

to  the  hues  of  nature.  Such  was  Carravaggio 
always,  and  Guercino  often,  and  all  their  re- 
spective followers.  Such  was  Michael  Angelo, 
and  often  Raffaelle,  though,  at  other  times,  the 
color  of  Raffaelie  is  not  inferior,  in  truth  and 
glory,  to  Titian,  greatest  of  the  Venetian  col- 
orists  j  as  in  his  portraits  of  Leo  X.,  Julius,  and 
some  parts  of  some  of  his  frescoes.  But,  for 
the  most  part,  though  he  had  the  genius  for 
every  thing,  for  color  as  well  as  form,  yet  one 
may  conjecture  he  found  color,  in  its  greatest 
excellence,  too  laborious  for  the  careful  elabo- 
ration, which  can  alone  produce  great  results, 
too  costly  of  time  and  toil,  the  sacrifice  too 
great,  of  the  greater  to  the  less.  Allston  was 
apparently,  never  weary  of  the  labor  which 
would  add  one  more  tint  of  truth  to  the  color 
of  a  head  or  a  hand,  or  even,  of  any  object  of 
still  life,  that  entered  into  any  of  his  composi- 
tions. Any  eye  that  looks,  can  see  that  it  was 
a  most  laborious  and  difficult  process  by  which 
he  secured  his  results  ;  by  no  superficial  wash 
of  glaring  pigments,  as  in  the  color  of  Rubens 
—  whose  carnations  look  as  if  he  had  finished 


32  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

the  forms  at  once,  the  lights  and  the  darks,  in 
solid,  opaque  colors,  and  then,  with  a  free  and 
broad  brush  or  sponge,  washed  in  the  carmine, 
lake,  and  vermilion,  to  confer  the  requisite 
amount  of  red  ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  wrought 
out,  in  solid  color,  from  beginning  to  end,  by  a 
painful  and  sagacious  formation  on  the  pallette, 
of  the  very  tint  by  which  the  effect,  the  lights, 
shadows  and  half-shadows,  and  the  thousand, 
almost  imperceptible,  gradations  of  hue,  which 
bind  together  the  principal  masses  of  light  and 
shade,  was  to  be  produced. 

For  one,  I  cannot  regret  what  many  may 
regard  as  the  disproportionate  labor  and  atten- 
tion which  he  bestowed  upon  this  part  of  his 
art.  Here,  the  analogy  with  the  art  of  writing, 
again  comes  in.  For  certain  great  effects  to 
be  produced  upon  the  reason  of  mankind,  and 
the  condition  of  the  world,  you  do  not  desire, 
nor  could  you  endure,  the  high  coloring  of 
style,  or  any  prettinesses  of  language.  It  is 
only  by  pure  intellect,  set  forth  in  the  strictest 
forms  of  logic,  that  mankind  are  to  be  moved 
or  permanently  benefited.  Bacon  ancj.  Locke 


STYLE    IN    LITERATURE.  33 

rule  the  world  of  mind  ;  and  they  do  it,  not  by 
dainty  phraseology,  but  by  compact  argument  ; 
the  closer  and  severer  the  better.  And  even 
statesmen  and  orators  of  the  highest  order, 
never  toy  with  language,  it  is  no  play  with 
them ;  but  they  launch  forth  their  fiery  bolts 
upon  an  opponent,  or  a  hostile  cause,  as  hot- 
shot from  the  batteries  of  a  besieged  city;  every 
word,  an  argument ;  every  argument,  a  convic- 
tion. The  more  rough,  sinewy,  the  language, 
and  the  less  of  the  ornamental,  the  greater  the 
power.  These  are  the  men,  not,  who  please 
the  taste  of  a  few,  but  who  uproot  the  founda- 
tions of  current  opinion,  change  the  force  of 
philosophies,  and  shake  continents  and  worlds. 
For  them  style  is  hardly  an  entity  ;  the  word 
can  hardly  apply  to  them.  The  words  they 
use  will  not  bear  adornment,  any  more  than 
a  Bacon  or  a  Newton  could  wear  the  costume 
of  a  Beau  Brummel. 

In  like  manner,  the  Michael  Angelos  of  art 
will  hardly  deign  to  clothe  the  Atlantean 
forms, of  their  Prophets  and  Apostles  in  flesh, 
much  less  decorate  them  with  color,  or  any 


34  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

nearer  resemblance  to  humanity.  They  are 
gods  rather  than  men.  Form  alone,  colossal 
form,  expressed  by  strongly  contrasted  masses 
of  light  and  shade,  (for  it  can  hardly  be  called 
color,)  is  all  that  such  conceptions  as  those 
of  Michael  Angelo,  in  his  Prophets  and  Sybils, 
would  bear.  The  splendors  of  hue,  added  to 
such  forms,  would  but  detract  from  the  gran- 
deur of  the  effect. 

But  there  is  a  class  of  subjects  in  which  Mr. 
Allston  chiefly  delighted,  for  which  color  was 
as  essential  as  form;  without  which,  and  with- 
out which,  in  all  its  attractiveness  and  most 
seductive  charms,  they  would  be  almost  desti- 
tute of  all  merit,  or  could  be  represented  not 
more  truly  than  by  an  engraving.  I  allude  to 
his  ideal  female  heads,  and  his  landscapes.  In 
both  these  classes  of  subjects,  the  objects  are 
few,  to  the  most  extreme  simplicity,  and  color 
constitutes  the  -  peculiar  charm.  Every  one 
must  have  noticed  this,  in  observing  works  of 
art,  that  the  total  charm  of  many  a  picture,  lies, 
almost  wholly,  in  the  exquisiteness  of  the 
color.  You  will  find  it,  not  in  the  drawing, 


THE    COLOR    OF    LANDSCAPES.  35 

not  in  grace  of  form,  not  in  expression,  but 
distinctly  and  almost  solely,  in  the  delicious- 
ness  and  absolute  truth  of  color.  This  will 
be  found  to  be  so  in  the  human  form,  emi- 
nently, and  even  more  so  in  landscape.  There 
is  many  a  landscape,  the  merit  of  which  lies 
wholly  in  the  color  ;  its  picturesque  effect,  its 
power  over  the  imagination,  is  in  the  color  ; 
in  the  memories,  which  it  thus  awakens,  of 
former  scenes  and  places,  even  of  aspects  of 
the  heavens,  at  night,  morning,  or  sunny  noon, 
of  deep  woods,  or  heated,  desert  plains.  An 
engraving  of  such  scenes  would  convey  no 
idea  whatever,  all  the  forms  being  poor  and 
meagre,  without  beauty  and  without  expres- 
sion. I  remember  well  a  picture  by  the  Flem- 
ing, Both,  of  a  white  cow.  The  picture  was 
very  large  ;  yet,  though  so  large,  the  only 
objects  were,  the  cow  cooling  herself,  as  she 
stood  in  some  running  water,  beneath  a  spread- 
ing tree,  —  the  tower  of  a  church  glimmering 
in  the  distance  over  a  long  sandy  reach.  Bus 
the  strength  and  charm  of  the  picture,  lay  in  the 
atmospheric  hues  and  haziness  of  a  hot  mid- 


36  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

summer  day,  its  aerial  perspective,  and  the 
general  truth  of  color.  Allston's  Spanish  Girl, 
and  his  Italian  Scenery,  possess  these  merits, 
in  an  eminent  degree.  These  have  other 
merits,  as  well ;  but  the  predominating  beauty 
is  in  the  color.  And,  is  it  not  exactly  so,  in 
scenes  of  actual  nature  ?  The  beauty  that  rav- 
ishes the  eye  is  in  the  color,  in  the  vanishing 
hues  of  cloud,  atmosphere,  and  earth ;  while, 
at  the  same  time,  a  distinct  or  agreeable  form 
can  scarce  be  made  out,  at  all. 

I  now  pass  to  another  characteristic  of  Mr. 
Allston's  genius,  as  an  artist ;  I  refer  to  ex- 
expression. 

His  power  over,  and  knowledge  of,  the  hu- 
man countenance  was  very  great,  and  though, 
clearly,  he  is  not  to  be  ranked  among  the 
greatest  artists  of  this  class,  he  was,  never- 
theless, to  be  ranked  among  those  who  stood 
very  high  in  it.  But,  among  those  who  ex- 
celled in  this  particular  respect,  I  am  inclined 
to  think  that  he  cared  less  than  others,  to  use 
what  power  he  had  ;  and  perhaps,  through  a 
dread  of  caricature,  avoided  painting  an  ex- 


IDEAL  FEMALE  HEADS.  37 

press! ve  face.  In  portrait,  the  difficulty  is  not 
in  reaching  a  likeness,  but  in  confining  the 
likeness  at  the  point  where  decided  resem- 
blance is  attained  and  caricature  begins.  And 
in  historical  subjects,  in  subjects  of  every  kind 
where  sentiment  is  to  be  expressed,  the  same 
difficulty  must  occur.  It  must  be  compara- 
tively easy  to  express  with  strength  a  strong 
and  decided  passion  or  emotion, — but  diffi- 
cult to  restrain  the  expression  within  such 
bounds  as  to  make  it  effective,  yet  not  offen- 
sive. In  the  numerous  works  of  that  class 
in  which  he  particularly  excelled,  the  ideal 
female  heads,  he  sought  not,  but  avoided 
expression,  except  perhaps,  in  a  single  case. 
The  faces  are  expressionless,  passionless, 
emotionless,  like  the  beautiful  head  of  the 
Unknown  One,  in  the  Pitti  Gallery.  And  cer- 
tainly, such  faces,  otherwise  well  executed,  are 
far  more  agreeable,  or  less  repulsive,  than  are 
sometimes,  the  extremely  pious  heads  of 
Guido,  and  always,  those  of  Carlo  Dolce,  or 
Sassoferrato.  In  the  case  of  these  heads  by 
Allston.  room  is  left  for  the  imagination  to 
4 


33  LECTURES    ON    ALL9TON. 

play  and  conjure  into  the  features  what  fancy 
it  may  ;  which  is  better,  where  the  main  object 
of  the  picture  was  of  a  very  different  kind. 
There  was  manifestly  no  wish  to  throw  mean- 
ing into  them,  or  any  meaning  to  be  interpret- 
ed by  all  alike.  They  were  left  purposely 
obscure,  of  doubtful  significancy.  There  are 
several  in  the  present  exhibition  of  the  Boston 
Athena3um,  of  this  description,  only  partly  fin- 
ished, but  of  the  same  general  character ;  faces 
calm,  passionless,  without  sensibility,  but  at 
the  same  time,  thoughtful,  serious,  melancholy, 
breathing  all  over,  a  tender,  meditative  beauty, 
which  carries  in  it  an  indescribable  charm,  like 
a  twilight  scene  in  nature,  where  all  is  divinely 
beautiful,  but  all  vague,  indistinct,  indeter- 
minate—  the  beauty  lying  in  that  very  trait. 
But  some,  even  of  his  grandest  figures,  are 
remarkable  for  an  expression,  which,  grand 
and  dignified,  is  yet  calm,  vague,  and  hardly 
susceptible  of  definition  as  to  the  precise  sen- 
timent intended  to  be  conveyed.  So  different, 
in  this  respect,  from  the  works  of  Raffaelle, 
where,  in  his  greater  works,  nor  only  in  them, 


RAFFAELLK 


•GUERCINO.  39 


there  is  not  only  expression,  but  a  very  un- 
doubted expression,  with  a  very  unmistakable 
meaning.  Take  such  a  picture^  as  Paul 
Preaching,  or  Ely  mas  Struck  Blind.  Not 
only  the  principal  actors,  but  secondaries, 
and  all,  without  exception,  throughout,  are 
marked  and  strongly  marked,  by  expressions 
naturally  created  by  the  particular  incident. 
This  is  certainly  one  of  the  greatest  beauties 
of  those  works,  and  a  most  decided  proof  of 
genius.  So  also,  particularly,  with  the  works 
of  Guercino  —  full,  overflowing  with  expres- 
sion, sometimes  of  a  character  the  most  mar- 
vellous and  subtle.  The  meanings-,  which  we 
should  say  would  be  the  most  difficult  to 
convey  —  almost  impossible  ;  half  meanings, 
mixed,  double,  even  these  are  there ;  such  as 
pitifulness  and  reproach,  doubt  and  contempt, 
and  these  are  conveyed  with  the  utmost  pre- 
cision, with  the  distinctness  and  truth  of  real 
life.  It  is  not  so  with  Allston  ;  in  cases  even 
where  it  was  natural  that  it  should  have  been 
so  ;  where  there  was  an  open,  clear  field  for  a 
display  of  all  of  that  kind  of  power,  and 


40  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

where  the  scene  could  hardly  be  expressed  at 
all  without  a  lavish  use  of  it ;  yet  it  is  not 
there. 

In  the  great  picture  of  Jeremiah  and  his 
Scribe,  the  expression,  for  such  a  subject,  is  all 
perhaps  that  it  could  be.  This  figure  is  alto- 
gether of  the  order  of  Michael  Angelo's 
Prophets:  and,  while  equalling  them  in  gran- 
deur of  form  and  a  divine  nobleness  in  the  air, 
far  surpasses  them  in  that  gorgeousness  of  art, 
which  still  by  no  means  detracts  from  any 
greatness  in  the  effect.  But  for  that  which  is 
my  only  point  at  present,  (I  shall  speak  here- 
after of  the.  whole  picture.)  it  seems  to  me  that 
it  utters,  as  perfectly  as  one  can  imagine,  the 
sentiment  proper  to  the  subject ;  the  state  of 
mind  and  feeling  of  one  under  the  control  of 
a  divine  inspiration  ;  the  air  of  abstractedness 
from  every  present  object,  of  absorption  into 
self,  that  sudden  arrest  and  pause  of  every 
faculty  and  emotion,  while  passively  the  mind 
receives  the  divinely  communicated  truths. 
All  this  is  finely  expressed  in  the  character 
and  fixedness  of  the  countenance,  and  by  the 


THE    DEAD    MAN    RESTORED    TO    LIFE.         41 

right  hand,  as  if  pausing  in  mid  air,  while  the 
heavenly  message  is  transmitting.  No  one 
can  look  at  this  form  without  being  most 
deeply  struck  by  the  air  of  supernatural  dig- 
nity spread  over  the  whole  figure. 

In  the  form  of  "  Miriam,  the  Prophetess, 
the  Sister  of  Aaron,"  there  is  well  enough 
expressed,  in  a  finely  conceived  and  well 
drawn  figure,  the  jubilant  air  of  a  Jewish 
female,  singing  to  the  timbrel  her  song  of 
triumph  over  the  enemies  of  her  country. 

"  Saul  and  the  Witch  of  Endor,"  is  more  re- 
markable for  the  painter's  art,  which  is  very 
high,  than  for  any  thing  strikingly  original  or 
powerful  in  the  expression. 

"  The  Dead  Man  Restored  to  Life,  by  touch- 
ing the  bones  of  the  Prophet."  If,  in  this 
instance,  Allston's  power  of  expression  is  to 
be  judged  by  the  character  of  the  whole  figure 
of  the  man  in  the  act  of  returning  to  life  ;  or, 
rather,  of  life  revisiting  him  slowly,  warming 
the  limbs  with  the  flush  of  health,  the  eyes 
heavily  opening  their  lids  to  the  returning 
light ;  his  genius,  in  this  respect,  must  be  judged 


42  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

most  favorably,  for  it  is  not  easy  to  imagine 
how  either  art  or  the  power  of  conception 
could  be  carried  further.  It  appears  an  abso- 
lutely perfect  expression  of  a  human  form, 
under  the  conditions  supposed.  It  is  one  of 
those  powerful  conceptions  by  which  an  idea 
or  subject  is  exhausted,  and  its  demands  satis- 
fied. Of  the  soldiers  who  surround  the  mouth 
of  the  cave,  nothing  can  be  said,  but  that  they 
express  vulgar  terror  by  common-place  lines ; 
there  appears  much  monotony  in  the  faces  and 
attitudes. 

The  work  of  Mr.  Allston,  which,  as  I  think, 
was  his  most  successful  one,  in  point  of  expres- 
sion of  emotion  and  state  of  mind  through  the 
countenance,  is  that  which  is  called  the  Death 
of  King  John.  This  is  an  unfinished  picture  ; 
but,  though  unfinished  in  respect  to  the  acces- 
sories, the  design  is  determined,  the  composi- 
tion complete,  and  expresses  well  the  whole 
subject,  the  forms,  and  even  the  costume, 
roughly  indicated  with  the  great  masses  of 
light  and  shade  ;  but  the  heads  of  both  the 
principals  and  the  subordinates,  with  the  lines 


THE    DEATH    OF    KING    JOHN. 

of  expression  finished,  almost  to  the  very  final 
touches ;  at  least,  had  it  lain  with  me  to  deter- 
mine, I  should  not  have  dared  to  allow  even 
the  artist  himself,  to  have  either  added  or  sub- 
tracted a  line,  or  a  point  of  light,  shade,  or 
form,  so  felicitous  already,  are  the  counte- 
nances of  the  different  groups,  in  the  various 
shades  of  their  expression.  In  depicting  the 
scene,  Allston  followed  Shakspeare  rather  than 
Hume,  in  killing  the  king  by  poison,  admin- 
istered by  a  monk,  and  representing  Prince 
Henry  as  a  full  grown  man,  who  was  but  nine 
years  old  ;  unless,  perhaps,  by  the  tall,  melan- 
choly figure  over  the  dying  king  be  intended 
the  Bastard  of  the  play,  the  son  of  Richard 
Cceur  de  Lion,  by  Lady  Faulconbridge.  This 
seems  more  probable,  as  it  was  to  him,  just 
returned  from  France  with  news  for  the  King, 
that  the  Monarch  addresses  his  dying  words : 

"  0  cousin,  thou  art  come  to  set  mine  eye  : 
The  tackle  of  my  heart  is  cracked  and  burned, 
And  all  the  shrouds,  wherewith  ray  life  should  sail, 
Are  turned  to  one  thread,  one  little  hair  ; 
My  heart  hath  one  poor  string  to  stay  it  by, 


44  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

Which  holds  but  till  thy  news  be  uttered  ; 
And  then  all  this  thou  see'st,  is  but  a  clod, 
And  module  of  confounded  royalty." 

The  King,  as  he  dies,  expresses  in  the  agony 
of  the  countenance,  some  portion,  at  least,  of 
that  inner  misery  of  the  heart  which  could 
not  but  torment  the  conscience  of  one  who 
had  committed  every  crime,  and  been  guilty 
of  every  meanness  possible  to  humanity. 
But,  notwithstanding  that  all  those  who  are 
standing  by,  silent  observers  of  the  scene, 
could  hardly  have  felt  otherwise  than  as  all 
must  feel,  at  witnessing  the  close  of  so  vile  a 
life,  it  is  a  touch  of  truth  and  nature  in  Poet 
and  Painter,  that,  at  that  awful  moment  which 
swallows  up  every  other  feeling,  however  just 
and  warrantable,  in  deep  commiseration  — 
(the  sinner's  own  horrors  of  remorse  are 
enough  for  him)  —  for  themselves,  they  can 
only  be  moved  with  compassion  for  the 
wretch  who  reviews  such  a  life,  and  whom 
such  a  future  awaits ;  and  there  is  not  one 
face,  in  all  the  surrounding  groups,  that  is 
not  marked  by  lines  of  the  tenderest  pity 


'•         THE    DEATH    OF    KING    JOHN.  45 

mixed  with  awe,  from  the  female  and  the 
monk  bending  toward  the  dying  man,  up  to 
Prince  Henry.  All  are  expressive  of  the 
deepest  humanity ;  and  from  such  faces  gath- 
ered around  him,  the  passing  soul  could  not, 
at  the  very  last  moment,  but  have  caught  at  a 
new  argument  of  the  mercy  of  God,  from  wit- 
nessing such  expressions  of  it  in  the  counte- 
nances of  imperfect,  sinful  men.  If  man  be 
thus  pitiful,  must  not  God  be  more  so  ?  The 
whole  design  of  the  picture  is  one  of  great 
truth  and  simplicity ;  perfectly  sets  forth  the 
scene  ;  and,  had  it  been  completed,  would 
have  redounded  largely  to  the  fame  of  the 
Artist. 

This  will  close  what  I  have  to  say  of  these 
two  characteristics  of  Mr.  Allston,  except 
what  may  incidentally  appear,  in  criticisms 
on  other  parts  of  the  subject.  I  sum  up,  as 
I  began,  in  saying,  that,  though  Mr.  Allston  is 
not  among  the  highest  in  this  last  named 
department,  he  stands  very  high ;  but  in  color, 
on  the  highest  round  of  the  ladder. 


THE  LESSER  PICTURES. 


THE   LESSER  PICTURES. 


MR.  ALLSTON  was  certainly  remarkable  for 
the  variety  of  his  powers,  and  for  the  variety 
of  departments  in  which  he  excelled ;  and 
that,  not  only  in  the  departments  of  his  own 
particular  art,  but  in  other  walks  of  intellec- 
tual culture.  And  within  the  province  of  his 
own  special  art,  he  was  there  marked  by 
variety.  A  graduate  of  Cambridge,  he  en- 
joyed, of  course,  all  the  best  advantages  which 
the  country  affords,  of  a  polite  education.  He 
was  not  only  painter,  but  general  scholar  as 
well,  and  became  an  author,  both  in  prose  and 
verse.  In  verse,  he  reached,  by  a  few  efforts, 
a  very  general  and  enviable  distinction  ;  in 
prose,  he  was  confined,  not  to  one  depart- 
ment alone,  but  attained  reputation  in  many. 
5 


50  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON.    ' 

Metaphysician,  novelist,  critic,  poet,  essay- 
ist, as  he  tried  all,  he  was  not  without  much 
merit  in  all.  In  art,  he  also  attempted  all 
its  various  methods  of  expressing  thought  by 
color  and  form  ;  and  excelled  in  all  he  tried, 
history,  portrait,  ideal  portrait,  landscape,  ma- 
rine pictures,  cabinet  pictures  or  genre  pic- 
tures, as  they  are  called  ;  in  a  word,  in  every 
thing. 

When,  a  few  years  ago,  the  admirers  and 
friends  of  Mr.  Allston  collected  together,  into 
a  single  large  room,  nearly  all  the  pictures  by 
his  hand  on  this  side  the  Atlantic,  I  suppose 
that  by  nothing  was  one  more  struck  (many 
indeed,  surprised)  than  by  this  variety  in  the 
departments  of  his  art  which  he  had  tried, 
and  in  which  he  had  excelled ;  from  the  mag- 
nificence of  the  Jeremiah,  to  the  exquisite 
piece  of  humor,  The  Poor  Author  and  the 
Bookseller,  unless  it  were,  perhaps,  by  the 
amount  of  work  he  had  done,  notwithstand- 
ing the  minuteness  and  carefulness  of  his 
finish  ;  and  he  never  dismissed  a  work  from 
his  easel,  not  only  till  his  employer  was  satis- 


THE    VERSATILITY    OF    HIS    GENIUS.  51 

fied,  but  till  he  himself,  the  most  fastidious 
and  difficult  of  all  his  employers,  was  also 
satisfied. 

This  various  application  of  his  mind  to  the 
various  departments  of  his  art,  while  it  must 
have  been  more  agreeable  to  himself,  and 
gave  abundant  evidence  of  that  trait  of  genius 
termed  versatility,  and  was  perhaps,  more  im- 
proving to  his  own  powers  than  a  more  limited 
range  would  have  been,  could  hardly  have 
served  him  so  well  in  respect  to  his  ultimate 
fame,  nor,  of  course,  to  high  excellence  in  any 
one  department.  Art,  as  he  pursued  it,  was 
too  long  for  so  short  a  life  as  the  best  of  us 
can  reach  here.  One  can,  for  the  most  part, 
have  time  but  for  a  few  sketches,  and  the  scene 
closes — prematurely,  to  every  man  actuated  by 
a  true  ambition,  to  whatever  age  he  may  have 
reached.  Considering  the  variety  of  themes  to 
which  he  was  attached  and  devoted  himself, 
more  or  less,  and  he  had  hardly  begun  to  live 
at  the  time  of  his  death.  Allston  loved  the 
grand  and  the  beautiful  with  the  passion  of  a 
mind  great  in  itself  and  bent  on  great  achieve- 


52  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

ments,  in  that  department.  But,  almost  as  well, 
he  loved  the  humblest  work  of  art,  and  de- 
spised nothing.  The  quiet  Dutch  feeling  with 
which  he  would  work  upon  a  stone  jar  or  vase, 
upon  a  vessel  of  gold  or  silver,  or  any  object 
of  still  life,  and  the  perfection  to  which  he 
would  bring  it,  would  hardly  have  been  ex- 
pected from  a  mind  that  preferred  and  chiefly 
devoted  itself  to  the  sublime  and  magnificent  ; 
to  Jeremiahs,  Belshazzars,  Miriams.  Yet  that 
is  ever  the  way  with  minds  of  the  very  highest 
order.  To  them  nothing  is  low,  which  can 
represent  any  phase  of  nature  and  life  with 
truth.  Universality  is  the  attribute  of  this 
class  of  minds.  Shakspeare  rioted  in  his  Dog- 
berries and  Launcelot  Gobbos,  more,  we  are 
apt  to  think,  than  in  his  Hamlets,  Othellos, 
Macbeths ;  drew  them  all  with  equal  power 
and  truth  certainly,  and  perhaps  enjoyed  the 
work  more.  And,  when  you  examine  the  jar 
or  vase  in  the  Jeremiah,  or  the  diamond  rings 
on  the  fingers  of  his  rich  Jews,  you  see  that, 
in  this  regard,  Shakspeare  and  Allston  were 
fellows  of  the  same  craft. 


VERSATILITY    HOSTILE    TO    SUCCESS.  53 

But  one  cannot  doubt  that  this  versatility  of 
mind  and  various  application  of  power  was, 
on  the  whole,  injurious  to  his  highest  success 
and  his  reputation ;  and  for  the  reason  just 
intimated  ;  —  that  art  is  surrounded  by  so 
many  difficulties  that  life  is  not  long  enough 
to  allow  time  to  climb,  one  after  another,  so 
many  of  its  lofty  summits.  One,  for  the  most 
part,  must  suffice,  no  matter  what  the  amount 
of  original  genius  may  be  ;  I  mean,  to  attain 
the  greatest  excellence  in  any  one.  No  such 
man,  be  he  ever  so  accomplished,  can  do  more 
than  make  many  brilliant  beginnings.  It  is 
true  that  the  fundamental  principles  of  the 
various  fine  arts,  and  in  all  the  departments 
and  divisions  of  each,  are  common  to  all,  and 
he  who  is  by  nature  fitted  for  one,  is  fitted  for 
all,  and  may  be  capable  of  excellence  in  all. 
But,  for  the  infinite  detail  of  work  in  each,  not 
perhaps  power,  but  simply,  time  would  be 
wanting. 

There  are  some  branches  of  art,  and  indeed, 
some  particular  pictures,  which  demand  a  very 
high  excellence  in  many  kinds  of  painting. 

5* 


64 


LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 


History,  for  instance,  requires  often  not  the 
representing  of  men,  but  women  also,  and 
various  other  forms  of  animal  life  ;  it  de- 
mands the  expression  of  the  passions,  in  their 
utmost  perfection  ;  it  requires  the  introduc- 
tion of  landscape,  in  all  its  particulars,  various 
kinds  of  still  life  and  every  variety  of  cos- 
tume. This  is  too  much  for  one  man  to  do 
in  one  life,  and  do  well ;  and  he  who  will  at- 
tempt it,  must  fail  in  many  ways.  Mr.  Allston 
did,  and  it  was  unavoidable.  At  least,  there 
are  but  two  ways  of  escape  out  of  the  diffi- 
culty ;  one,  that  all  the  less  important  portions 
of  a  picture  should  be  painted  with  no  pretence 
at  perfect  finish,  in  a  broad  and  careless  man- 
ner, securing  only  some  general  good  effects  ; 
or  all  may  be  turned  over  to  the  hands  of  assist- 
ants ;  the  better  way,  when  possible,  and  the 
only  conceivable  way  in  which  the  great  artists 
of  the  world  have  been  able  to  accomplish  even 
half  the  number  of  works  ascribed  to  them.  In 
such  case,  the  great  man  made  the  design  arid 
put  in  the  drawing.  Subordinates  executed  all 
the  heavy  work  of  the  first  coloring,  after  the 


ASSISTANTS.  55 

drawings,  up  to  a  very  high  degree  of  finish, 
and  then  the  master  put  on  the  final  touches, 
painting  many  parts,  the  heads,  perhaps,  alto- 
gether. Just  in  painting  as  it  is  in  sculpture  : 
in  Italy  a  sculptor  need  never  see  the  marble, 
but  workmen  can  be  found  to  complete  the 
stone  after  drawings  and  models  in  clay,  and  in 
the  utmost  perfection.  Sometimes,  the  painter 
artist  borrowed  the  labor  of  others,  in  order  to 
expedite  works  which,  alone,  it  would  take 
him  too  long  to  finish,  and  because,  in  this 
way,  he  could  fill  the  world  with  much  more 
of  the  results  of  his  genius,  as  well  as  accu- 
mulate greater  wealth.  Sometimes,  however, 
because,  in  certain  departments  of  the  art,  he 
was  himself  deficient,  and  was  compelled  to 
draw  upon  the  power  of  another.  The  figures 
in  the  landscapes  of  Claude  were  drawn  and 
painted  by  those  whom  he  employed  for  that 
purpose.  Giulio  Romano  was  employed  by 
RafFaelle,  to  paint  very  large  portions  of  pic- 
tures which  go  under  his  name.  And  so  of 
others. 

In  the  case  of  Mr.  Allston,  unfortunately, 


56  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

there  could  be  no  help,  no  assistant,  had  he 
desired  it  ever  so  much.  It  must  all  be  done 
by  his  own  hand,  if  at  all,  from  the  first  chalk 
sketch  to  the  final  glaze,  —  through  all  the 
laborious,  intermediate  stages.  One  thinks 
only  with  a  sigh  of  regret,  that  the  kind  of 
labor  which  here  fell  to  his  lot,  could  be  pos- 
sibly done  by  no  other  hand,  —  labor,  which, 
though  absolutely  essential  to  be  done  in  a 
very  particular  manner  in  order  to  produce  the 
desired  result,  yet  could,  under  a  little  instruc- 
tion, be  readily  performed  by  any  person  of 
common  ability,  under  the  superintendence  of 
the  principal ;  such,  for  instance,  as  the  dead 
or  first  coloring  of  his  pictures,  which,  requir- 
ing only  directions  as  to  the  colors  to  be  used 
in  each  particular  case  —  an  all-important  pre- 
requisite —  could,  for  the  rest,  be  done  as  well 
by  any  young  tyro,  as  by  an  Allston.  And 
so  with  much  else  properly  belonging  to  the 
subordinate  and*  less  important  work  of  the 
artist's  studio.  Any  young  student  of  the 
art  would  have  been  proud  of  the  privilege  of 
placing  upon  the  canvass  the  first  strata  of 


ASSISTANTS.  57 

color  on  which  Allston  was  to  place  the  last  ; 
and  who  would  thus  have  been  thoroughly 
instructed  in  some  of  the  most  valuable 
secrets  and  processes  by  which  ultimate  ef- 
fects were  to  be  secured.  In  this  way,  had 
it  been  permitted,  quite  a  school  of  young 
artists  might  have  been  put  in  training,  at  the 
same  time  that  he  would  have  been  left  free 
to  apply  himself  only  to  the  completing,  at 
the  last  stages,  works,  the  rough  labor  of 
which  had  been  performed  by  others ;  and  in 
that  way,  double,  treble  the  number  of  his 
designs  would  have  been  completed.  But,  hav- 
ing adopted  the  opposite  system,  of  doing  all 
his  work  with  his  own  hand,  he  was  not,  for  a 
great  part  of  the  time,  so  much  an  artist  as  a 
day  laborer,  performing  a  drudgery  easily  to 
have  been  thrown  off  upon  others  ;  and  ac- 
cordingly, comparatively  few  works  remain  for 
posterity ;  very  many,  considering  the  amount 
of  work  he  did  himself,  and  especially,  his  own 
fastidiousness  and  his  exalted  notions  of  the 
character  of  his  art  ;  but  few,  compared  with 
what  might  have  been  done,  on  a  different 


58  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

system,  and  under  which  his  work  would 
have  been,  in  all  respects,  equally  entitled  to 
the  claim  of  originality. 

Another  regret  one  cannot  here  but  feel  and 
express,  that  it  never  should  have  occurred  to 
him,  that  it  would  have  been  an  easy  thing 
for  him  to  have  collected  about  him  and  es- 
tablished quite  a  school  of  young  artists,  whom 
he  would  have  occupied  in  the  first  instance 
and  chiefly,  —  and  it  would  have  been  the  best 
instruction  he  could  have  given,  —  in  laying 
the  ground-work  of  his  own  pictures.  Any 
intimation  to  that  effect,  I  believe  would  have 
drawn  to  his  side  an  abundance  of  assist- 
ants, whose  highest  satisfaction  would  have 
been  the  preparation,  under  his  directions, 
of  the  first  stages  of  his  pictures,  and  their 
sole  reward,  such  labors,  together  with  the 
incidental  instructions  he  could  have  imparted 
without  loss  of  strength  or  time. 

The  most  important  instruction  to  the 
artist,  is  that  of  the  purely  mechanical  pro- 
cesses,—  processes  which  the  hints  or  pre- 
cepts of  a  master  impart  in  a  few  theoretic 


INSTRUCTION    OF    YOUNG    ARTISTS.  59 

lessons,  or  better  still,  by  a  few  lessons  in 
practice,  which  are  never  forgotten,  and 
which  save  to  the  young  beginner  years, 
perhaps,  of  fruitless  experimenting.  Not  that 
any  amount  of  teaching,  as  I  have  before 
hinted,  can  impart  some  kinds  of  knowledge, 
but  that  almost  any  teacher  may  impart  all 
that  is  most  essential ;  and,  when  it  pro- 
ceeds from  a  master  of  decided  genius,  such 
teaching  must  bear  with  it  more  or  less 
of  the  impress  of  the  master.  Had  any  such 
plan  been  adopted  by  Mr.  Allston,  in  what  a 
different  state  would  the  arts  have  now  been 
in  this  vicinity.  It  might  have  proved  the 
grand  centre  of  art  in  the  country  ;  a  point 
from  which  light  might  have  radiated  in  all 
directions,  where  now  is  almost  uncommon 
darkness.  Only  the  least  hint  was  needed  at 
any  time,  I  am  persuaded,  to  send  to  his  apart- 
ments crowds  of  aspirants  ambitious  to  catch 
from  his  presence,  his  conversation,  his  art, 
the  spirit  of  grace,  beauty,  truth,  that  over- 
flowed into  all  the  atmosphere  about  him. 
And  thus,  from  that  luminous  centre,  one  can 


60  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

easily  believe,  would  have  originated  an  Amer- 
ican School  of  Art. 

Although  however,  it  be  true,  that  owing 
to  the  turn  of  mind  which  coveted  every  form 
of  excellence,  he  was,  perhaps,  too  various  in 
his  labors  to  reach  the  loftiest  point  in  any 
one,  yet  there  was  one  mental  attribute  under 
which  almost  all  his  works  may  be  classed, 
and  which  stamped  itself  upon  his  whole 
being,  which  was,  grace,  beauty.  That,  as 
in  the  case  of  RafFaelle,  was  the  feeling  that 
overruled  all  others  ;  the  feeling  for  beauty, 
in  all  the  widest  application  of  that  term. 
The  conception  of  grandeur  was  there  also  ;  a 
deep  feeling  for  it,  as  it  is  evident,  in  many  of 
his  works,  it  was  his  predominating  desire  to 
express  it,  and  fill  others  with  the  same 
sublime 'emotions  by  which  he  was  himself 
possessed.  But,  though  it  is  not  to  be  denied 
that  he  in  some  cases  succeeded,  it  is  quite 
true  that  he  succeeded,  not  so  often,  nor  to  the 
same  extent,  in  exciting  it  in  the  minds  of 
others,  as  in  that  of  beauty.  There  he  was 


THE    ELEMENT    OF    BEAUTY.  61 

at  home.  He  dwelt  in  beauty,  and  beauty  in 
him.  He  was  it.  And  in  all  the  works  that 
came  from  his  hand,  you  see  at  once  the 
attribute  that  reigned  there  ;  and  how,  though 
defects  of  one  sort  and  another  may  be  noted, 
the  divine  element  of  beauty  is  always  there. 
There  may  be  found  in  his  works,  at  times, 
a  want  of  expression  ;  a  want  of  grandeur, 
where  you  naturally  look  for  it ;  a  want  of 
vigor,  in  conception  or  execution  ;  a  lack  of 
that  abounding  life,  which,  in  the  works  of 
some  artists,  draws  the  spectator  like  a  mag- 
net ;  but  every  where,  in  all  the  predominant 
forms,  whether  of  man  or  woman,  nude  or 
draped,  in  water,  land,  cloud,  atmosphere,  tree 
or  rock  ;  and,  as  well  in  color  as  in  form, 
beauty  and  grace  are  the  inspiration,  the  in- 
forming soul ;  these,  the  universal  presence 
that  lends  attractions  and  a  nameless  charm, 
to  every  subject  that  came  from  his  pencil.  If 
it  was  not  every  where  and  in  every  thing,  in 
every  picture,  it  was  always  somewhere  and  in 
something,  and  gave  its  character  to  the  work  ; 
gave  that  merit  which  stamped  upon  it  its 
6 


62  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

value.  Here  he  was  eminently  of  the  school 
of  Raffaelle  and  Claude,  born  under  the  same 
star,  a  vessel  of  the  same  divine  inspiration. 

Mr.  Allston  had  his  own  peculiar  sense  of 
the  beautiful,  and  that  he  endeavored  to  ex- 
press ;  and  not  any  conventional  ideas,  in 
which  the  many  agree.  Not  at  all,  that  he 
was  a  man  of  affectations,  or  sought  rather 
after  the  new  and  eccentric  than  the  true. 
He  was  a  natural  man,  a  man  of  simplicity, 
earnestness  and  truth,  and  his  object  to  ex- 
press with  truth,  himself  and  his  own  con- 
ceptions of  the  beauty,  grandeur  of  nature. 
But  he  was  very  individual ;  as  much  so  as 
Correggio  or  Salvator  Rosa.  He  had  his 
own  sense  of  the  beautiful.  The  face  of  a 
woman,  for  example,  is  considered  beautiful 
generally,  when  it  is  thought  symmetrically 
formed,  after  the  Greek  mode  perhaps,  the 
features  (particularly  the  nose  and  mouth) 
exactly  chiselled,  as  they  call  it,  and  a 
fine  vermilion  enlivening  the  skin  just  there 
where,  according  to  rule,  it  should  show 
itself.  Such  a  face,  exhibited  at  the  window 


THE  CONCEPTION  OF  BEAUTY.        63 

of  a  print-shop,  would  arrest  the  steps  of 
the  crowds  who  should  pass  by,  and  as  they 
passed,  the  most  would  exclaim,  how  beauti- 
ful !  And  it  must  be  so.  For  there  is  no 
fixed  standard  of  the  beautiful,  but  it  varies 
and  changes  with  the  individual ;  and  even 
in  the  individual,  his  own  standard  is  apt  to 
change  and  vary,  and  differs  this  year  from 
the  last,  and  to-day  from  yesterday,  just  as 
his  general  cultivation  changes,  advances  or 
recedes ;  or,  as  suddenly,  new  sources  and  im- 
pressions are  opened  to  him.  That  is  to  say, 
there  are  no  rules  to  which  to  refer,  and 
which  can  prove  this  to  be  beautiful,  and  that 
to  be  the  reverse.  Each  has  his  own  con- 
ception of  what  is  beautiful.  And  though, 
as  I  have  said,  there  are  certain  forms  in 
which  the  greater  part  would  agree,  there  are 
many  who  would  totally  dissent ;  just  as  we 
differ  in  respect  to  a  fragrance.  The  rose  is, 
to  most  indeed,  agreeable  ;  but  not  to  all,  and 
to  some,  offensive.  And  in  regard  to  most 
other  flowers,  the  differences  are  infinite. 
Yet  there  is  a  beautiful,  as  there  is  a  fra- 


64  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

grance,  but  it  is  created  by  the  mind  of  the 
looker-on.  That  is  his  beautiful,  which  he 
sees  to  be  so,  not  which  others  see  to  be  so, 
or  think  they  can  prove  such.  But,  while 
men  in  general,  and  even  artists  themselves, 
incline  to  adopt  indolently  the  conclusions  in 
which  others  rest,  to  think  their  thoughts, 
and  to  subscribe  to  their  opinions,  I  do  not 
think  it  was  the  case  with  Mr.  Allston. 
Especially  in  the  matter  under  our  thoughts, 
he  had  his  own  standard  of  the  beautiful,  and 
expressed  it  in  his  own  way.  In  regard  to 
the  female  head,  he  certainly  differed  widely 
from  the  common  judgment ;  never  represent- 
ing as  beautiful  what  most  would  judge  to  be 
so.  Yet  no  one  can  doubt,  that  to  him  it  was 
the  beauty  which  captivated  and  enslaved  his 
imagination,  and  which  he  aimed  to  reveal  to 
others  through  form  and  color. 

There  was  no  subject,  perhaps,  of  which  he 
was  so  fond,  (and  it  agreed  with  the  delicacy 
and  refinement  of  his  mind,)  and  repeated  so 
often,  as  ideal  female  heads ;  not  exactly  repe- 
titions, of  course  ;  but,  while  all  the  accidents 


IDEAL    FEMALE    HEADS.  65 

of  the  picture  varied,  the  main  thought  was 
one  and  the  same  ;  the  type  was  the  same,  the 
individual  differences,  at  the  same  time,  such  as 
to  give  an  air  of  newness,  if  not  of  originality, 
to  each  particular  subject.  It  is  what  would 
be  called  an  inexpressive  countenance,  or  at 
most,  a  ruminating,  introspective  one  ;  but, 
save  in  a  single  instance,  the  Rosalie,  really 
one  without  expression ;  and,  in  the  Rosalie, 
no  expression  of  joy  or  grief  or  melancholy, 
or  any  other,  so  determinate  that  any  two  per- 
sons would  agree  as  to  the  meaning  intended 
to  be  conveyed.  The  merit  of  this  class  of 
pictures,  and  it  is  very  great,  —  they  are  his 
greatest  works,  I  suppose, — is  that  of  objects 
of  still  life,  in  a  state  of  such  absolute  repose, 
silence,  abstractedness,  do  they  live.  Life 
seems  almost  dead.  The  Roman  Lady,  is  as 
if  suddenly  stiffened  into  a  sort  of  living  death, 
the  very  possibility  of  motion  gone,  but  other- 
wise beautiful,  with  the  full  flush  of  life  and 
health.  Giving  up  expression,  animation,'  and 
they  are  miracles  of  beauty  and  grace, — the 
very  perfection  of  the  art  of  painting.  If  Leo- 
6* 


66  'LECTURES  ON  ALLSTOX. 

nardo  Da  Vinci's  Mona  Lisa,  which  he  was 
four  years  in  painting,  deserved  the  immor- 
tality which  has  been  awarded  to  it,  much 
more,  at  least  equally,  do  the  Beatrice,  the 
Rosalie,  the  Valentine.  And  if  the  picture  of 
Leonardo's  mistress  could  not  be  purchased, 
though  covered -thick  with  gold,  even  deeper 
should  it  be  piled  for  the  Valentine.  In  my 
opinion,  there  is  not  existing  a  picture  of  this 
class,  which,  for  the  merits  of  art,  stands 
higher  than  this.  The  picture  of  Leonardo's 
just  named,  Raffaelle's  Fornarina,  of  the  Tri- 
bune, Titian's  Flora,  all  so  celebrated ;  not  one 
possesses  in  superior  perfection,  the  qualities 
which  make  a  work  of  art  supremely  beau- 
tiful,—  a  transcript  absolutely  perfect,  of  the 
most  beautiful  nature.  This  marvellous  per- 
fection lies  in  the  color,  repose,  naturalness, 
simplicity  of  the  figure.  The  drawing  is  all 
true,  the  forms  all  graceful,  and  the  objects  of 
still  life,  whatever  they  may  be,  simple  almost 
to  barrenness  ;  yet  is  the  genius  lavished  upon 
the  color  so  remarkable,  that  it  must  ever 
remain  one  of  the  chief  works  of  the  artist,  if 


THE    VALENTINE.  67 

not  his  chiefest,  scarce  ever  equalled  by  any 
artist  of  any  time,  and  never  surpassed.  This 
may  seem  an  extravagance.  But  it  will  not 
be  thought  so,  if  it  is  considered  that  this 
superiority  is  affirmed,  not  of  the  composition, 
invention,  or  form,  but  of  the  color.  All  is 
excellent,  and  without  fault,  but  it  is  in  the 
color  alone,  that  this  amazing  perfection  is 
asserted  and  claimed ;  and  if  it  be  further 
considered,  that,  to  this  quality  of  excel- 
lence in  painting  many  are  almost  insensible, 
many  blind,  and  many  incapable  of  judging, 
for  want,  either  of  a  feeling  for  color,  or  of 
cultivation  in  that  particular  respect.  This  is 
undoubtedly,  that  element  in  beauty  which 
requires  both  a  natural  eye  for  color,  and  also 
a  good  deal  of  cultivation  in  the  way  of  com- 
parison of  one  work  with  another  and  with 
nature,  to  enable  one  to  detect  and  then  feel, 
the  secrets  of  that  beauty  that  so  enchants. 
Until  after  a  good  deal  of  such  comparison  and 
study,  but  little  difference  would  be  discerned 
between  the  coarse  red  and  white  of  a  great 
deal  of  Stuart's  work  —  with  very  few  though 


68  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

magnificent  exceptions  —  or  the  glassy,  artifi- 
cial surface  of  the  French  and  German  painters, 
and  that  mysterious  mingling  of  hues  to  pro- 
duce the  very  tint  of  nature,  and  effect  of 
breathing  life,  that  spreads  such  an  indescriba- 
ble charm  over  the  Valentine.  The  lines 
•where  grace  and  comeliness  of  form  reside 
are  comparatively  obvious,  and  almost  alike 
obvious  to  all,  comprehended,  moreover,  at  a 
glance.  Color,  on  the  other  hand,  in  its  per- 
fection, is  neither  seen  nor  enjoyed  at  once  ; 
its  hidden  beauty  not  even  guessed.  Just  as 
mere  style  in  writing  is  so  often  overlooked, 
and  rarely  felt  in  its  depths,  but  by  a  few  who 
make  it  a  study,  so  in  very  many,  in  respect 
both  to  color  and  style,  there  is  an  absolute 
insensibility  ;  there  is  the  want  of  a  sense  of 
perception,  as  there  is  oftentimes,  the  want 
of  a  sense  for  certain  odors,  and  to  poetic 
beauties. 

All  the  pictures  to  which  I  have  just  re- 
ferred, and  many  others,  to  which  I  shall 
presently  turn  your  attention,  are  examples 
of  that  peculiar  charm  in  art,  styled  by  the 


REPOSE.  69 

critics,  repose.  There  is  hardly  a  work  from 
the  hand  of  Allston  which  is  not,  either  in  the 
whole,  or  in  some  considerable  part,  an  in- 
stance in  point.  The  word  Repose,  alone, 
perhaps  with  sufficient  accuracy,  describes  the 
state  of  mind,  and  the  outward  aspect  of  na- 
ture intended  by  it.  It  describes  the  breath- 
less silence  and  deep  rest  of  a  mid-summer 
day,  when  not  a  leaf  moves  and  the  shadows 
fall  dark  and  heavy  upon  the  face  of  the  clear 
water,  which  repeats  every  object  near  it  as 
in  a  mirror  ;  the  cow  on  the  bank,  half-asleep, 
lazily  chewing  the  cud  and  flapping  away 
the  flies  from  her  side ;  and  the  only  sound  to 
break  the  silence,  the  sleepy  drone  of  the 
locust  ;  while  a  warm,  misty  atmosphere, 
through  which  you  just  catch  the  roofs  of 
the  neighboring  village,  wraps  all  things  in 
its  purplish  folds.  Or,  it  describes  the  weary 
foot-traveller  sitting  upon  a  stone  by  the 
brook-side,  as  he  rests,  watching  the  sheep 
as  they  nibble  the  short  grass,  or  the  falling 
of  the  autumn  leaves,  as  they  alight  upon 
those  which  had  fallen  before  ;  these  the  only 


70  LECTUKES    ON    ALLSTON. 

sounds,  save  the  gurgling  of  the  water  among 
the  pebbles,  and  the  distant  Sabbath  bell  that 
echoes  among  the  hills.  The  poets  under- 
stand this  deep  repose,  and  paint  no  picture 
oftener. 

"  Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds  : 
Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 
Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign." 

And,  in  the  words  of  Bryant : 

"For  me,  I  lie 

Languidly  in  the  shade,  where  the  thick  turf, 
Yet  virgin  from  the  kisses  of  the  sun, 
Retains  some  freshness,  and  T  woo  the  wind 
That  still  delays  its  coming." 

And  again, 

"  The  massy  rocks  themselves, 
And  the  old  and  ponderous  trunks  of  prostrate  trees 
That  lead  from  knoll  to  knoll  a  causey  rude, 
Or  bridge  the  sunken  brook,  and  their  dark  roots, 
With  all  their  earth  upon  them,  twisting  high, 
Breathe  fixed  tranquillity." 


PICTURES    IN    COLOR    AND    IN    VERSE.          71 

There  is  much  that  is  closely  kindred  in  the 
genius  of  Bryant  and  Allston.  They  both 
love,  prefer,  the  calm,  the  thoughtful,  the 
contemplative.  Their  pictures,  in  color  and 
in  verse,  paint,  oftener  than  any  other  theme, 
this  silence,  rest,  deep  repose  of  nature  ;  the 
pictures  of  Allston  full  of  poetry,  the  poems 
of  Bryant  gushing  with  life  and  truth. 
As  in  these  exquisite  lines  : 

"  And  now,  when  comes  the  calm  mild  day,  as  still  such 

days  will  come, 
To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their  winter 

home  ; 
When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though  all 

the  trees  are  still, 

And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  rill, 
The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose  fragrance 

late  he  bore, 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream 

no  more." 

Here  are  music,  poetry,  and  painting  — 
like  Canova's  Three  Graces,  embracing  each 
other  —  bound  together  in  indissoluble  union; 
beautiful  apart,  beautiful  always,  but  more 
beautiful  when  knit  together  by  such  a  bond. 


72  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

I  may  add  of  this  hymn  of  Bryant,  that,  like 
the  Elegy  of  Gray,  the  one  hardly  less  perfect 
than  the  other,  the  pathos  and  the  beauty  are 
too  deep  for  any  one  to  trust  his  voice  to  read 
aloud. 

All  the  pictures  of  his  ideal  women  are 
illustrations  of  this  feeling  of  repose,  this  love 
for  the  silent,  the  solitary,  the  contemplative. 
The  Rosalie,  one  of  the  most  graceful  con- 
ceptions that  artist  was  ever  able  to  copy  upon 
canvass,  —  who  shall  undertake  to  guess  the 
thoughts  breaking  out  of  that  deep,  thoughtful 
eye,  the  eye  of  a  woman  of  sensibility  and 
genius,  yet  for  the  moment  floating  in  va- 
cancy, or,  it  may  be,  arrested  by  a  fancy  — 
she  hardly  knows  what,  just  as  for  an  instant 
her  exquisite  hand  is  fixed,  as  she  twirls  the 
golden  chain  that  falls  from  her  neck  ?  Of 
what  she  thinks,  or,  whether  she  thinks  at  all, 
it  were  vain  to  conjecture.  But  the  art  in  the 
picture  is  almost  unsurpassed,  even  by  him- 
self; quite  so,  save  by  the  Yalentine.  In  her 
thoughtful  repose,  sitting  with  so  easy  a  grace, 
one  is  reminded,  both  in  the  subject,  and 


THE    ROMAN    LADY.  73 

the  perfection  of  the  design  and  work,  of 
Correggio's  Magdalene,  as  she  lies  at  length, 
reading,  beneath  a  tree.  The  form  of  the 
body,  so  far  as  it  is  revealed  through  the 
drapery,  the  rich  harmony  of  the  hues  that 
delight  without  dazzling  the  eye  ;  the  hand 
so  very  lady-like,  so  exquisitely  formed,  the 
round  delicate  fingers  so  prettily  disposed,  yet 
not  artificially  or  affectedly,  all  this  is  art  so 
delicious,  and  of  so  high  a  character,  that  no 
other  among  our  painters  has  ever  been  equal 
to  it,  and  it  fills  the  mind  with  pride  that  in 
our  small  circle  of  new-born  aspirants,  one 
even  should  have  arisen  capable  of  achieve- 
ments that  might  confer  honor  upon  any  age 
of  art,  in  any  land. 

In  the  Roman  Lady,  as  she  has  been 
named,  very  much  the  same  attributes  are  to 
be  observed.  Here,  she  is  not  in  the  state  of 
reverie,  but  reads  from  a  volume  which  she 
holds  before  her.  She  is  altogether  a  less 
attractive  person  than  Rosalie ;  the  face  is 
hard,  wooden,  unsentimental,  and  every  way 
less  successfully  colored,  though  in  all  these 
7 


74  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

very  respects  less  faulty  than  Raffaelle's  For- 
narina.  But  if  faults  may  be  found  with  the 
face,  as  hard  and  unattractive,  it  is  not  so 
with  the  hands,  which  are  eminent  examples 
of  the  most  splendid  color  imaginable  ;  both 
of  them  in  shadow,  or  half  shadow,  and  are 
enough  to  confer  celebrity  upon  any  work 
of  art.  In  both  color  and  drawing,  they  are 
specimens  of  the  most  perfect  art.  They 
actually  seem  to  ray  out  light,  like  some  of 
Titian's  flesh  color,  and,  as  I  shall  afterwards 
notice,  in  the  case  of  the  hands  of  the  Jewess 
in  the  Belshazzar. 

The  Beatrice,  by  most  persons,  would  be 
thought  more  beautiful  than  the  Rosalie  :  but 
if  they  differ,  they  differ  only  as  those  things 
do  which  are  twin  in  their  charms.  Both  are 
calm  and  contemplative,  and  there  is  simi- 
larity in  some  points  of  the  costume.  Both 
look  out  of  the  picture.  There  is  a  national, 
rather  than  individual  difference,  between  the 
two.  The  calmness  of  the  Beatrice  is  that 
of  an  English,  not  an  Italian  lady ;  so  very 
English,  as  to  deem  it  unlady-like,  if  she  feels, 


LORENZO    AND    JESSICA.  IO 

to  express  an  emotion,  in  he"r  countenance. 
The  countenance  of  Rosalie  is  bursting  with 
emotion  not  to  be  restrained  ;  it  is  as  if  she 
might  have  been  the  lady-love  of  Petrarch, 
Dante,  or  Tasso,  —  one  who  would  have 
watched  with  enthusiasm,  and  waited  for 
the  maturing  fancies  of  her  lover,  and  as 
they  reached  their  perfect  close,  would  have 
thrown  a  laurel  chaplet  over  his  brows  in  the 
ardor  of  her  admiration.  The  English  Bea- 
trice would  have  made  no  motion. 

But  perhaps  the  most  exquisite  examples  of 
repose,  are  the  Lorenzo  and  Jessica,  and  the 
Spanish  Girl.  These  are  works  also  to  which 
no  perfection  could  be  added  ;  from  which, 
without  loss,  neither  touch  or  tint  could  be 
subtracted.  We  might  search  through  all  galle- 
ries, the  Louvre,  or  any  other,  for  their  equals 
or  rivals,  in  either  conception  or  execution.  I 
speak  of  these  familiarly,  because  I  suppose 
you  all  to  be  familiar  with  them.  The  first 
named,  the  Lorenzo  and  Jessica,  is  a  very 
small  picture,  (one  of  the  smallest  of  Allston's 
best  ones,)  but  no  increase  of  size  could  have 


76  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

enlarged  its  beauty,  or  in  any  sense  have 
added  to  its  value.  The  lovers  sit  side  by 
side,  their  hands  clasped,  at  the  dim  hour  of 
twilight,  all  the  world  hushed  into  silence, 
not  a  cloud  visible  to  speck  the  clear  expanse 
of  the  darkening  sky,  as  if  themselves  were 
the  only  creatures  breathing  in  life,  and  they 
absorbed  into  each  other,  while  their  eyes, 
turned  in  the  same  direction,  are  bent  upon 
the  fading  light  of  the  gentle  but  brilliant 
planet,  as  it  sinks  below  the  horizon ;  the 
gentle  brilliancy,  not  the  setting,  the  emblem 
of  their  mutual  loves.  As  you  dwell  upon 
the  scene,  your  only  thought  is,  may  this 
quiet  beauty,  this  delicious  calm,  never  be 
disturbed,  but,  may 

"  The  peace  of  the  scene  pass  into  the  heart." 
In  the  back-ground,  breaking  the  line  of  the 
horizon,  but  in  fine  unison  with  the  figures 
and  the  character  of  the  atmosphere,  are  the 
faint  outlines  of  a  villa  of  Italian  architec- 
ture, but  to  whose  luxurious  halls  you  can 
hardly  wish  the  lovers  should  ever  return, 
so  long  as  they  can  remain  sitting  upon  that. 


THE    SPANISH    GIRL.  i  7 

bank.  It  is  all  painted  in  that  deep,  sub- 
dued, but  rich  tone,  in  which,  except  by  the 
strongest  light,  the  forms  are  scarce  to  be 
made  out,  but  to  which,  to  the  mind  in  some 
moods,  a  charm  is  lent  surpassing  all  the  glory 
of  the  sun. 

The  Spanish  Girl,  is  another  example  to 
the  same  point.  It  is  one  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful and  perfect  of  all  of  Mr.  Allston's  works. 
The  Spanish  Girl  gives  her  name  to  the  pic- 
ture, but  it  is  one  of  those  misnomers,  of 
which  there  are  many  among  his  works. 
One  who  looks  at  the  picture,  scarcely  ever 
looks  at,  certainly  cares  nothing  for  the  Span- 
ish Girl,  and  regards  her  merely  as  giving  a 
name  to  the  picture  ;  and  when  the  mind 
recurs  to  it  afterwards,  however  many  years 
may  have  elapsed,  while  he  can  recall  nothing 
of  the  beauty,  the  grace,  or  the  charms  of  the 
Spanish  Maiden,  the  landscape,  of  which  her 
presence  is  a  mere  inferior  incident,  is  never 
forgotten,  but  remains  forever,  as  a  part  of 
the  furniture  of  the  mind.  In  this  part  of  the 
picture  -*?  the  landscape  — -  it  must  be  consider- 
7* 


78  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

ed  as  one  of  those  felicitous  works  of  genius, 
where,  by  a  few  significant  tints  arid  touches, 
there  is  unveiled  a  world  of  beauty.  You  see 
the  roots  of  a  single  hill  only,  and  a  remote 
mountain  summit,  but  you  think  of  Alps  and 
Andes,  and  the  eye  presses  onwards,  till  it  at 
last,  rests  on  a  low  cloud  at  the  horizon.  It 
is  a  mere  snatch  of  nature,  but  though  only 
that,  every  square  inch  of  the  surface  has  its 
meaning.  It  carries  you  back  to  what  your 
mind  imagines,  of  the  warm  reddish  tints  of 
some  of  the  slopes  of  the  Brown  Mountains 
of  Cervantes,  where  the  shepherds  and  shep- 
herdesses of  that  pastoral  scene  passed  their 
happy  sunny  hours.  The  same  deep  feeling 
of  repose  is  shown  in  all  the  half-developed 
objects  of  the  hill-side,  in  the  dull  sleepy  tint 
of  the  summer  air  and  in  the  warm  motion- 
less haze  that  wraps  sky,  land,  tree,  water  and 
cloud.  It  is  quite  wonderful,  by  how  few 
tints  and  touches,  by  what  almost  shadowy 
and  indistinct  forms,  a  whole  world  of  poetry 
can  be  breathed  into  the  soul,  and  the  mind 
sent  rambling  off  into  pastures,  fields,  bound-,. 


THE    SPANISH    GIRL.  79 

less  deserts  of  imaginary  pleasures,  where 
only  is  warmth,  and  sunshine,  and  rest,  where 
only  poets  dwell,  and  beauty  wanders  abroad 
with  her  sweeping  train  and  the  realities  of 
the  working-day  world  are  for  a  few  moments 
happily  forgotten.  This  all  shows  the  power 
of  the  painter,  and  yet  more,  perhaps,  of  the 
poet.  The  only  part  of  the  picture  that  could 
ever  seem  a  defect  to  me,  was  the  too  formal 
outline  of  the  small  lake,  on  the  bank  of 
which  the  Spanish  Girl  sits.  And  yet  one 
should  consider,  that  it  is  this  very  formality, 
this  uniformity,  that  goes  to  create  in  the 
mind,  this  feeling  of  repose,  that  makes  the 
merit  of  the  whole.  The  stirring  of  the 
water  —  it  is  absolutely  still  —  even  the  rug- 
ged indentations  of  the  bank,  would  have 
done  something  to  break  the  charm.  I  do 
not  remember  that  the  lady  possesses  any 
special  charms ;  yet  a  Spanish  girl  should,  if 
travellers  are  to  be  believed. 

The  Young  Troubadour,  is  too  small  to 
elicit  much  interest,  yet  it  would  not  be  so 
if  I  could  consider  it  equally  fortunate  in  its 


80  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

conception  and  execution.  But  it  has  always 
seemed  to  me,  that  there  was  a  want  of  ad- 
justment and  harmony,  which  violates  the 
sentiment  of  repose,  which  else  characterizes 
it,  and  disturbs  and  agitates  the  observer. 
And  in  addition  to  this,  one  cannot  but  think, 
as  in  another  picture  of  Mr.  Allston's,  a  Ma- 
donna and  Child,  that  he  was  seduced  from 
his  own  manner,  into  a  mere  imitation  of  the 
manner  of  the  old  masters,  in  the  forms,  and 
especially,  in  the  tone  of  color  and  the  hand- 
ling ;  it  is,  as  if  his  aim  had  been  mainly,  not 
to  follow  the  manner  of  any  particular  artist, 
and  much  less  his  own,  but  to  copy  the  man- 
ner of  all  of  them,  if  one  may  say  so,  to 
paint  a  new  picture  of  to-day,  so  as,  in  its 
thought  and  its  color  and  general  style,  to 
seem  like  one  painted  three  hundred  years 
ago.  At  least,  I  can  account  for  its  fashion 
in  no  other  way  so  well. 

Amy  Robsart, — so  named,  —  is  not  with- 
out beauties  ;  but  it  is,  perhaps,  one  of  the 
least  effective  of  any  from  his  hand. 

I  turn,  with  more  pleasure,  to  another  work 


ELIJAH    IN  THE    DESERT.  81 

of  Mr.  Allston,  even  though  but  compara- 
tively few  can  ever  have  seen  it,  but  which 
made  upon  my  own  mind,  when  I  saw  it 
immediately  after  it  was  completed,  an  im- 
pression of  grandeur  and  beauty,  never  to  be 
effaced  and  never  recalled  without  new  senti- 
ments of  enthusiastic  admiration.  I  refer  to 
his  grand  landscape  of  Elijah  in  the  Desert, — 
a  large  picture,  of  perhaps  six  feet  by  four. 
It  might  have  been  more  appropriately  named, 
"  An  Asian  or  Arabian  Desert."  That  is  to 
say,  it  is  a  very  unfortunate  error,  to  give  to 
either  a  picture,  or  a  book,  a  name  which 
raises  false  expectations.  It  matters  not  that 
you  shall  find  something  better  than  you  ex- 
pected ;  if  it  is  not  that  which  you  expected, 
because  it  had  been  promised,  you  are  at 
least,  disappointed,  and  in  some  modes  of 
mind,  vexed.  Especially  is  this  the  case 
when  the  name  of  a  picture  is  a  great  and 
imposing  one,  (as  in  this  instance,)  which 
greatly  excites  the  imagination.  What  could 
be  more  so  than  this  ?  "  Elijah  in  the  Desert, 
fed  by  ravens."  Yet  extreme,  and  fatal  to 


82  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

many,  was  the  disappointment  on  entering 
the  room,  when,  looking  upon  the  picture,  no 
Elijah  was  to  be  seen  ;  at  least,  you  had  to 
search  for  him  as  among  the  subordinate  ob- 
jects, hidden  away  among  the  grotesque  roots 
of  an  enormous  banyan  tree ;  and  the  Prophet, 
when  found  at  last,  was  hardly  worth  the  pains 
of  the  search.  Sir  Walter  Scott  was  always, 
justly  afraid  of  a  name  of  a  book,  of  any 
name,  that  should  raise  expectation  on  the 
part  of  the  public  ;  a  proof  equally  of  his 
genuine  modesty,  and  his  practical  good 
sense  ;  so  he  gave  names  that  meant  nothing, 
Waverley,  Guy  Mannering,  Ivanhoe,  The 
Heart  of  Mid-Lothian.  He  observed  the 
same  rule  in  his  poems.  But,  as  soon  as 
the  intelligent  visitor  had  recovered  from  this 
first  disappointment,  the  objects  which  then 
immediately  filled  the  eye,  taught  him  that, 
though  he  had « not  found  what  he  had  been 
promised,  a  Prophet,  he  had  found  more  than 
a  Prophet,  —  a  landscape,  which,  in  its  sub- 
limity, excited  the  imagination  as  powerfully 
as  any  gigantic  form  of  the  Elijah  could 


ELIJAH    IN    THE    DESERT.  83 

done,  even  though  Michael  Angelo  had  drawn 
it.  Nevertheless,  all  who  carne  in  the  strictly 
religious  expectation,  rather  than  the  artists, 
who  came  to  find  (what  they  afterwards  did 
find  in  the  Jeremiah)  a  most  real  and  verita- 
ble Prophet,  and  who  knew  little  and  cared 
less,  about  art,  all  such  probably,  never  did 
recover  their  equanimity,  nor  consider  the  loss 
less  than  total. 

This  landscape  is  among  the  few  of  Mr. 
Allston's  works,  which,  I  suppose,  will  bear 
to  be  classed  among  the  works  of  sublimity 
rather  than  of  beauty,  or,  than  among  any 
which  illustrate  the  feeling  of  repose.  Sub- 
lime to  my  mind  it  certainly  was,  beyond  any 
picture  I  have  seen  since,  with  the  exception 
of  two  by  Salvator  Rosa,  in  the  Guadagni 
Palace  in  Florence,  the  Temptation  and  the 
Baptism  of  Christ.  These  are  great  works, 
worthy  of  any  name  and  any  reputation. 
They  sum  up,  and  even  exalt  all  the  peculiar 
merits  of  that  great  artist.  Very  many  of  his 
works  fall  below  his  reputation.  The  greater 
part  do.  For  he  painted  in  a  hurry  from  a 


84  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

momentary  feeling  or  conception,  and  his  suc- 
cess was,  of  course,  a  mere  accident.  Turner 
is  fabled  to  work  in  a  somewhat  similar  way  ; 
painting  a  large  picture  out  of  pots  of  paint 
which  he  brings  with  him,  after  the  canvass  is 
framed  and  in  its  place,  a  day  before  the  Exhi- 
bition is  to  open.  But  these  great  works  of 
Salvator  betray  no  marks  of  immaturity  or 
haste,  in  either  the  work  or  the  design.  On 
the  other  hand,  they  are  grand  and  magnifi- 
cent transcripts  of  that  grand  and  awful  nature 
which  haunted  his  imagination,  and  of  which 
no  truth  or  reality  could  possibly  be  consid- 
ered an  exaggeration.  These  pictures  are 
both  for  sale,  and  could  they  be  brought  into 
the  country  by  any  fortunate  purchaser,  what 
a  foundation  would  they  lay  for  an  Academy 
of  Art !  And,  if  to  these,  could  be  added  the 
Elijah  of  Allston,  also  probably  to  be  easily 
had  on  application,  such  a  gallery,  in  one 
department  of  art,  might  at  once  boast  an 
unsurpassed  glory.  I  have  said  that  Allston's 
picture  may  be  easily  had.  I  will  digress  ,so 
far  as  to  say,  that  soon  after  it  was  completed 


ELIJAH    IN    THE    DESERT.  85 

and  exhibited,  it  was  purchased  by  an  English 
gentleman  and  removed  to  England,  but  fell 
into  disrepute.  The  story  runs,  that  on  occa- 
sion of  one  of  our  American  travellers  being 
abroad  and  accidentally  at  the  house  of  the 
owner  of  the  picture,  asking,  as  was  natural 
enough,  to  be  allowed  to  see  it,  the  owner  (a 
member  of  Parliament  at  the  time)  could, 
only  with  difficulty,  be  brought  to  recollect 
that  he  had  ever  possessed  such  a  work,  but 
on  doing  so  at  length,  a  servant  was  ordered  to 
bring  it  down  from  a  lumber-room,  where  it 
had  lain  for  years,  frameless  and  rolled  up 
among  other  forgotten  rubbish  of  the  same 
kind.  Whether  fable  or  not,  if  for  sale,  it 
would  be  a  great  piece  of  good  fortune  could 
it  be  restored  to  so  many  who  admire  it  as  a 
work  of  genius.  It  is,  however,  very  likely  to 
be  a  true  story.  For  the  English,  in  the  mat- 
ter of  art,  are  governed  by  fashion,  solely,  not 
by  knowledge,  or  taste,  or  sincere  relish  for  it. 
If  Sir  Jeremy  Fool,  R.  A.,  had  once  set  his 
seal  of  disapprobation  upon  it,  not  all  the  real 
merit  of  this,  or  any  other  work,  could  save  it 
'  8 


86  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

from  its  fatal  doom.  There  is  no  individual 
judgment,  that  is,  in  such  subjects  ;  prescrip- 
tion is  the  rule  of  action.  It  is  not  knowl- 
edge, genuine  connoisseurship,  that  stamps  a 
picture's  worth  there,  but  simply  and  solely, 
fashion,  money.  This  is  no  libel  of  mine,  (if 
it  be  one  at  all,)  but  you  may  find  it,  broad- 
cast, any  where  on  the  columns  of  the  London 
Art  Journal,  where,  on  these  subjects,  the 
truth  is  honestly  spoken. 

But  to  return  to  the  picture.  It  is  meant 
to  represent,  and  does  perfectly  represent,  an 
illimitable  desert,  a  boundless  surface  of  bar- 
renness and  desolation,  where  nature  can  bring 
forth  nothing  but  seeds  of  death,  and  the  only 
tree  -there  is  dead  and  withered,  not  a  leaf  to 
be  seen,  nor  possible.  The  only  other  objects 
beside  the  level  of  the  desert,  either  smooth 
with  sand  or  rough  with  ragged  rock,  are  a 
range  of  dark  mountains  on  the  right,  heavy 
lowering  clouds,  which  overspread  and  over- 
shadow the  whole  scene,  the  roots  and  wide- 
spread branches  of  an  enormous  banyan  tree, 
through  the  tortuous  and  leafless  branches  of 


ELIJAH    IN    THE    DESERT.  87 

which,  the  distant  landscape,  the  hills,  rocks, 
clouds  and  remote  plain,  are  seen.  The  roots 
of  this  huge  tree  of  the  desert,  in  all  directions 
from  the  main  trunk,  rise  upwards,  descend 
and  root  themselves  again  in  the  earth,  then 
again  rise,  again  descend  into  the  ground  and 
root  themselves,  and  so  on,  growing  smaller 
and  smaller  as  the  process  is  repeated,  till  they 
disappear  in  the  general  level  of  the  plain,  or 
lose  themselves  among  the  rocks,  like  the 
knots  and  convolutions  of  a  whole  family  of 
huge  boa  constrictors.  The  branches,  which 
almost  completely  fill  the  upper  part  of  the 
picture,  are  done  with  such  truth  to  general 
nature,  are  so  admirable  in  color,  so  wonderful 
in  the  treatment  of  their  perspective,  that  the 
eye  is  soon  happily  withdrawn  from  any 
attention  to  the  roots,  among  which  the 
Prophet  sits,  receiving  the  food  with  which 
the  ravens,  as  they  float  towards  him,  miracu- 
lously supply  him. 

In  this  instance,  which  is  rare,  Mr.  Allston 
neglected  the  general  truth  of  nature,  to  single 
out  and  depict  a  subordinate  particular,  and 


88  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

that  particular  having  no  beauty  or  charm 
of  its  own  —  though  certainly  possessing  a  sort 
of  savage  grandeur  —  simply  a  piece  of  natural 
history  and  nothing  more,  which,  however 
excellent  in  itself,  is  not  the  end  or  aim  of  this 
art.  We  want  foliage  in  a  picture,  but  not  a 
pitch-pine,  a  locust,  a  birch,  a  maple,  an  oak, 
or  an  elm ;  architecture,  but  not  of  stone, 
stucco,  shingle,  or  brick,  nor  of  one  style  or 
another ;  men  and  women,  but  not  of  one 
complexion,  form,  physiological  structure  or 
another,  of  one  race  or  another.  There  may 
be  such  a  tree  as  this  of  Mr.  Allston,  with 
just  such  roots ;  but,  if  there  is,  none  but 
natives  of  the  country  know  the  fact,  or 
naturalists,  whose  business  it  is  to  be  ac- 
quainted with  it  through  their  science.  And, 
to  make  it  a  principal  object  in  a  great  work 
of  art,  is  to  degrade  the  art  to  the  rank  of  a 
print  in  Goldsmith's  Animated  Nature.  It 
was  painting  a  mere  whim  ;  the  whole  tree, 
roots,  branches  and  all,  a  mere  whim,  a 
capriccio.  And  it  only  shows  how  much 
power  was  in  the  artist,  that,  notwithstanding 


ELIJAH    IN    THE    DESERT.  89 

these  essential  drawbacks,  the  total  effect  was 
most  strikingly  that  which  an  original  and 
grand  conception  could  alone  produce.  You, 
forget  the  Prophet,  the  ravens,  the  roots,  and 
almost  the  branches,  though  those  were  too 
vast  and  multitudinous  to  be  overlooked,  and 
were  moreover,  truly  characteristic  of  the 
general  scene ;  and  dwelt  only  upon  the 
heavy  rolling  clouds,  the  lifeless  Desert,  the 
sublime  masses  of  the  distant  mountains,  and 
the  indeterminate,  misty  outline  of  the  hori- 
zon, where  heaven  and  earth  become  one. 
The  picture  was  therefore  a  landscape  of  a 
most  sublime,  impressive  character,  and  not  a 
mere  representation  of  a  passage  of  Scripture 
history.  It  would  have  been  a  great  gain  to 
the  work  if  the  Scripture  passage  could  have 
been  painted  out,  and  the  Desert  only  left. 
But,  as  it  is,  it  serves  as  one  further  illustra- 
tion of  the  characteristic  of  Mr.  Allston's  art, 
of  which  I  have  already  given  several  exam- 
ples. For  melancholy,  dark,  and  terrific, 
almost,  as  are  all  the  features  of  the  scene,  a 
strange  calm  broods  over  it  ail ;  as  of  an  ocean, 

8* 


90  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

now  overhung  by  black,  threatening  clouds, 
dead  and  motionless,  but  the  sure  precursors 
of  change  and  storm.  And,  over  the  Desert 
hang  the  clouds,  which  were  soon  to  break 
and  deluge  the  parched  earth,  and  cover  it 
again  with  verdure.  But,  at  present,  the  only 
motion  and  life  is  in  the  little  brook  Cherith, 
as  it  winds  along  among  the  roots  of  the  great 
tree.  The  sublime,  after  all,  is  better  ex- 
pressed in  the  calmness,  repose,  silence,  of  the 
Elijah,  than  in  the  tempests  of  Poussin,  or 
Vernet,  Wilson,  or  Salvator  Rosa. 


THE  LARGER  PICTURES, 


BELSHAZZAR'S   FEAST. 


THE  LARGER  PICTURES. 


BELSHAZZAR'S  FEAST. 

i 

IF  Mr.  Allston's  mind  was  drawn,  more 
powerfully  than  in  any  other  direction,  to- 
ward beauty  and  the  fit  expression  of  it 
through  his  art,  he  loved,  with  hardly  less 
devotion,  the  grand,  the  sublime,  and  sought 
its  expression  by  the  same  channel.  And 
with  almost  the  like  success,  did  he  portray 
both  the  one  and  the  other.  I  say,  with  al- 
most the  like  success.  For,  if  there  was  any 
difference  of  power  in  representing  the  two 
emotions,  this  may  have  been  attributable  to 
the  greater  frequency  with  which  he  treated 
the  one,  rather  than  to  any  actual  difference, 
either  in  his  power  of  conception  or  execu- 
tion. He  succeeded  better  in  the  painting  of 
the  beautiful,  because  his  mind  was  more  in 


94  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

harmony  with  it  and  he  therefore  painted  it 
more  frequently. 

That  he  should,  in  so  many  instances,  have 
chosen  subjects  which  involved  the  sublime, 
or  the  grand,  may  rather  surprise  us  than  oth- 
erwise, as  nature  in  her  outward  aspects,  so 
seldom,  in  the  comparison,  offers  themes  which 
demand  its  treatment.  So  also,  in  representing 
states  of  mind,  it  is  seldom  that  emotions  of 
sublimity  are  awakened  in  the  mind  by  any 
thing  we  are  permitted  to  know  or  observe  in 
the  character  or  actions  of  men,  in  comparison 
with  what  excites  within  us  the  love  of  the 
beautiful.  Nature,  externally,  is  full  to  over- 
flowing, with  sources  of  the  beautiful.  You 
can  nowhere  turn  your  eye,  above,  around, 
beneath,  that  your  mind  is  not  raised  to  ec- 
stasy by  what  you  are  almost  compelled  to 
notice.  But  it  is  not  so  with  the  other  class  of 
emotions.  These  are  but  seldom  excited,  sel- 
dom gratified.  The  sublime  must  be  sought 
to  be  found,  and  is  rarely  found,  though  sought. 
Unless  it  be  maintained,  that  some  of  the  most 
common  objects  of  all  are,  at  the  same  time, 


SUBLIMITY    Or    FAMILIAR    OBJECTS.  95 

the  most  sublime  of  which  we  have  any 
knowledge,  or  can  form  any  conception,  name- 
ly, the  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  space  that 
embraces  all ;  our  atmosphere,  with  its  infinite 
changes  of  cloud  and  color.  And,  to  a  mind 
that  reflects,  it  is  true,  that  no  other  objects  in 
nature  can  compare  with  them  for  an  inex- 
pressible grandeur ;  no  mountain  range  of  Alps 
or  Andes,  no  Niagara  cataract,  no  ocean  in 
storm,  no  African  or  Asian  desert.  But  then, 
on  the  other  hand,  it  is  equally  true,  that 
custom  strips  them  of  their  power,  and  they 
are  as  if  they  were  not ;  that  the  mind,  always 
seeing  them  from  infancy,  in  fact,  never  sees 
them ;  and  that,  in  our  manhood  even,  they 
never  become  objects  of  sublimity,  except,  by 
an  express,  and  almost  painful  effort  of  the 
imagination.  A  scientific  imagination,  the 
result  of  the  highest  knowledge,  is  essential 
to  the  existence  of  sublime  emotions  deriva- 
ble from  such  objects.  To  a  Newton,  or  a 
Herschel,  no  other  object  could  compare  for 
grandeur,  to  a  single  telescopic  star,  whose 
distance  and  size  he  had  calculated,  while,  to 


96  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

the  rest  of  us,  it  would  necessarily  remain  but 
as  a  spangle  on  a  robe  of  blue,  or  a  faint 
twinkle  of  a  firefly. 

But  Mr.  Allston  sought  the  sources  of  the 
sublime  in  almost  every  case,  in  states  of  the 
human  mind,  rather  than  in  any  outward  as- 
pects of  nature.  He  did  not  overlook  the 
others,  but  he  obviously  considered  these  as 
affording  the  more  powerful  class  of  subjects ; 
at  any  rate,  it  was  these  that  appealed  most  to 
his  imagination.  The  Elijah,  a  mere  outward 
scene,  is  a  grand,  sublime  landscape  ;  it  raises 
emotions  of  sublimity  in  the  spectator ;  and 
his  object  was,  undoubtedly,  to  awaken  such 
emotions  in  all  who  should  look  upon  it.  His 
object  was  the  same  in  his  large  Swiss  Land- 
scape, with  its  vast,  angular  piles  of  rock,  its 
deep,  still  waters,  with  their  clear  reflections, 
the  stiff,  black  pines  on  the  banks,  with  a 
solitary  pathway,  dimly  traceable  beneath  the 
heavy  shadows,  along  which  dark  forms  are 
seen  stealing  their  way  through  the  branches. 
And  other  works  of  his  could  be  named,  where 
scenes  are  depicted,  by  which  emotions  are 


THE    MORAL    SUBLIME.  97 

excited  which  can  be  aroused  only  by  objects 
of  the  very  grandest  character,  as  by  actual 
scenes  of  sublime  nature,  which  show  how 
well  he  understood,  and  how  deeply  he  felt, 
this  side  of  nature.  But  still,  the  sources  of 
the  moral  sublime  were  those  to  which  he 
applied  for  yet  higher  pleasures,  and  in  which 
he  more  frequently  sought  for  subjects  for  his 
pencil.  The  supernatural  terror  springing 
from  objects  obscure  and  ill-defined  ;  remorse, 
a  tormented  conscience,  the  human  being 
agitated  by  emotions  arising  from  these  and 
similar  sources  of  woe,  afforded  subjects  for 
art,  which  he  seemed  to  think  himself  capable 
of  treating  more  effectively  still,  (though  the 
most  difficult  of  any,)  and  to  which  he  cer- 
tainly proved  himself  entirely  equal.  The 
moral  condition  which  he  especially  delighted 
in  describing,  is  depicted  in  the  scene  of  the 
air-drawn  dagger  of  Macbeth,  where  a  natu- 
rally tender,  but  terrified,  imagination  makes 
a  fearful  reality  of  a  mere  phantom  of  the 
mind ;  and  this  vision  of  God,  as  he  cannot 
doubt  it  to  be,  revealed  to  deter  him  from  the 
9 


98  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

deed  of  blood  that  he  designs,  convulses  him 
with  terror.  He  has  attempted  one  scene, 
taken  from  a  novel  of  Mrs.  Radcliffe,  not  very 
unlike  the  scene  from  Macbeth,  which  strik- 
ingly shows  his  power  in  this  department  in 
his  art,  and  to  which  I  shall  refer  you  pres- 
ently. In  the  mean  time,  I  first,  ho  wever 
call  your  attention  to  the  Jeremiah,  as  a  prin- 
cipal illustration  of  the  topic  in  hand.  But 
before  doing  this,  allow  me  to  adduce  an 
instance  from  Mr.  Allston's  writings,  to  show 
how  in  unison  his  mind  was  with  this  theme, 
how  readily  it  received  a  grand  idea  and  how 
fitly  clothed  it  in  language  worthy  of  the 
theme.  The  passage  I  allude  to  is  in  one  of 
his  letters,  in  which  he  is  throwing  off  easily 
the  thoughts  that  arise.  He  is  speaking, 
among  other  works  of  art,  of  a  picture  of 
Ludovico  Caracci.  "  I  do  not,"  he  says, 
"  remember  the  title  of  it ;  but  the  subject 
was  the  body  of  the  Virgin  borne  for  inter- 
ment by  four  Apostles.  The  figures  are  co- 
lossal ;  the  tone,  dark  and  of  tremendous 
depth  of  color;  it  seemed,  as  I  looked,  as  if 


THE    JEREMIAH.  99 

the  ground  shook  beneath  their  tread,  and  the 
air  was  darkened  by  their  grief."  A  sentence 
worthy  of  Dante,  and  exactly  in  his  manner. 

I  suppose  that  no  better  example  could  be 
found  of  Mr.  Allston's  power  of  raising  the 
emotions  of  which  we  have  been  speaking, 
than  in  the  Jeremiah.  It  is  a  large  picture, 
eight  feet  in  height  perhaps  by  five  in  width. 
It  comprises  only  two  figures,  the  Prophet  and 
his  attendant  or  scribe,  Baruch.  The  Prophet 
is  seated,  his  head  raised,  and  looking  upward 
with  a  majestic  air.  His  right  arm  elevated, 
the  two  middle  fingers  of  the  hand  bent 
under,  the  two  others  erect  and  pointing  up- 
wards. The  arm  is  not,  I  think,  leaning  upon 
any  thing,  but  you  receive  the  idea  of  a  sud- 
den, unconscious  arrest  of  the  arm  —  a  suspen- 
sion of  it  in  mid-air,  as  if  pausing  to  receive 
the  divine  communications  ;  which  effect  is 
increased  by  the  singular  and  awkward  posi- 
tion of  the  two  fingers ;  this  very  awkward- 
ness showing  the  state  of  unconsciousness,  in 
respect  to  all  ordinary  impressions ;  of  con- 
sciousness, only  to  the  presence  of  the  super- 


100  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

natural.  I  do  not  remember  the  position  and 
action  of  the  left  arm.  The  right  foot  is 
thrown  out  from  underneath  the  drapery, 
naked,  without  even  sandal,  and  in  its  form, 
its  color  and  whole  management,  offers  one 
of  the  finest  examples  of  Mr.  Allston's  perfect 
mastery  of  his  art.  It  is  an  exhibition,  of 
itself,  to  any  one  who  loves  the  art,  in  its 
treatment  in  the  most  perfect  manner,  of  a 
very  humble,  but  very  difficult  object.  The 
other  figure,  Baruch,  is  as  remarkable  for 
beauty  and  grace  of  outline,  and  splendor  of 
color,  as  Jeremiah  is  for  massiveness  and  gran- 
deur. The  scribe's  subordinate  condition  is 
indicated  by  the  deep  shadow  in  which  he 
sits,  and  the  fainter  delineation  of  his  whole 
person.  He  is  placed  nearly  back  to  the  spec- 
tator, and  bends  over  his  tablets  as  in  the  act  of 
recording  the  words  that  fall  from  the  Pro- 
phet's lips.  It  has  always  seemed  to  me  one 
of  the  most  faultless  of  all  Mr.  Allston's  works  ; 
and  not  only  faultless,  but,  with  great  posi- 
tiveness,  one  of  the  most  charming  conceptions 
of  his  mind.  The  back-ground  of  the  panel  is 


THE    JEREMIAH.  101 

filled  up  with  the  remote  architecture  of  the 
interior  of  the  Temple.  There  is  to  be  ob- 
served, in  this  part  of  the  picture,  the  same 
perspective  power,  both  in  the  drawing  of  the 
architectural  forms,  and  the  management  of 
the  light  and  shade,  and  of  the  atmosphere,  to 
produce  the  illusions  of  distance,  as  in  the 
Belshazzar.  In  the  foreground  of  the  picture, 
stands  an  immense  stone  or  earthen  jar  or  vase, 
partly  concealed  by  some  heavy  folds  of  dra- 
pery, which  have  fallen  upon  it,  which  is 
worked  up  altogether  with  the  greatest  beauty 
of  effect.  To  return  to  the  Prophet.  This  is, 
perhaps,  the  grandest  form  that  ever  came 
from  Allston's  hand ;  quite  certainly  the  noblest 
head,  with  an  expression,  more  nearly  ap- 
proaching the  loftiest  we  can  imagine  to  our- 
selves, than  any  other.  Indeed  it  is  not  easy, 
even  supposing  Michael  Angelo  the  artist,  to 
conceive  a  Prophet  or  an  Apostle  of  God  more 
completely  filling  up  our  ideas  of  such  a  Mes- 
senger. You  feel,  the  moment  you  turn  your 
eye  upon  the  picture,  that  such  an  one,  if  any 
on  earth,  in  the  shape  of  man,  is  worthy  to  be 
9* 


102  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

the  medium  of  communication  between  heaven 
and  earth  ;  and,  that  if  he  is  called  Jeremiah, 
he  well  personates  the  noblest  we  can  imagine 
of  the  sublime  old  Prophet.  And  the  whole  of 
this  grand  picture  seen  together,  examined  as 
a  whole,  reminds  one,  by  the  grandeur  of  the 
design,  by  the  splendor  and  harmony  of  the 
color,  the  beauty  and  grace  of  the  composition 
of  a  picture,  accounted  the  second  in  pictorial 
merit  in  the  world  —  the  Communion  of 
St.  Jerome,  by  Domenichino.  One  is  made 
to  think  of  that  the  more,  perhaps,  because, 
like  that,  it  is  an  upright  picture  and  of  about 
the  same  size  ;  but  more  especially,  because 
of  its  great  and  surpassing  merit  in  the  color, 
which  is  the  great  predominant  feature  in  its 
magnificent  prototype.  This  merit  is  espe- 
cially to  be  observed  in  the  head  of  the 
Prophet,  the  right  hand,  and  more  particularly, 
in  the  right  foot,  beyond  which  I  do  not 
believe  art  can  go,  or  has  ever  gone.  Then, 
as  a  specimen  of  color,  throughout  the  whole 
picture,  in  the  drapery,  the  figures,  the  back- 
ground, the  still  life,  yet  more  in  the  carna-^ 


SPLENDOR    OF    COLOR.  103 

tions,  this  is  all  no  less  worthy  of  admiration. 
It  is  also,  I  will  add,  an  instance  to  show  that 
the  utmost  richness  and  splendor  of  color,  is 
by  no  means  inconsistent  with  the  most  suc- 
cessful treatment  of  the  sublime. 

It  is  many  years  since  I  have  seen  this  pic- 
ture, but  I  think  it  not  possible  that  I  should 
have  exaggerated  any  of  its  merits,  and  my 
only  apprehension  really  is,  lest  I  may  have 
failed  to  do  it  justice.  Those  who  have  not 
seen  it,  nor  much  else  of  Mr.  Allston's  work,  I 
am  sure,  can  have  very  little  idea  of  the  supe- 
riority of  his  art ;  and,  in  order  not  to  con- 
demn the  admirers  who  have  seen  it,  and  that 
very  familiarly,  it  must  be  quite  necessary  that 
one  should  make  pilgrimages  to  the  shrine  of 
his  genius,  as  we  do  that  of  Michael  Angelo 
and  Raffaelle.  Here  I  will  venture  to  remark, 
that  there  seems  to  be  a  fault  somewhere, 
when  pictures  like  this,  so  calculated  to  afford 
pleasure  and  instruction  to  so  many,  particu- 
larly to  the  whole  body  of  our  artists,  and 
more  especially  to  the  young  student,  so  ex- 
tremely valuable  to  them,  enough  alone,  to 


104  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

give  an  impulse  for  life,  should  be  hidden 
away  entirely  from  the  eye  of  the  public  — 
not  only  in  private  apartments,  but  in  secluded 
remote  villages.  The  artist  is,  in  that  way, 
defrauded  of  his  just  fame,  and  society  of  its 
best  means  of  improvement.  I  acknowledge 
the  difficulty  in  the  way.  That  if,  in  a  pri- 
vate dwelling,  such  a  work  is  freely  thrown 
open,  the  order  of  the  house  is  disturbed  ; 
carpets  are  destroyed,  and  servants  and  family 
annoyed.  Then,  if  it  is  deposited  permanently 
in  a  public  room,  the  possessor  is  deprived  of 
pleasures  to  which  he  has  his  right.  But,  it 
would  be  a  great  favor  to  the  world  at  large,  if 
such  pictures,  not  possible  to  be  seen  in  any 
other  way,  could  be  deposited,  annually,  or 
occasionally,  in  a  city  exhibition-room  during 
three  or  four  months  of  the  travelling  season, 
when  very  great  numbers  could  be  enabled  to 
see  them  and  artists  would  have  an  opportu- 
nity to  examine  them  and  even  copy  them, 
if  desired. 

There  are  several  pictures  of  Mr.  Allston, 
which  are  illustrations  of  the  same  point  now 


HIS    POWER    OVER    THE    SUBLIME.          105 

under  consideration,  his  power,  namely,  over 
the  sublime,  but  which  I  have  never  seen, 
and  therefore  could  speak  of  them  only  by 
report,  namely,  Uriel  in  the  Sun,  Jacob's 
Dream,  Michael  setting  the  Heavenly  Watch 
at  the  Gates  of  Paradise.  These,  you  perceive 
at  once,  are  subjects  grand  and  sublime  in 
their  character,  and  to  be  treated  in  that  man- 
ner ;  and  the  common  statements,  from  the 
best  judges  of  art  relate,  that  the  success  of 
the  artist  was  all  you  would  wish,  from  the 
nature  of  the  theme,  and  all  you  would  expect 
from  the  genius  of  the  man.  Perhaps,  some 
would  be  inclined  to  include  the  picture  of  the 
Raising  of  the  Dead  Man  by  the  touch  of  the 
Prophet's  Bones,  in  this  class ;  but,  remarkable 
as  I  think  that  single  figure  of  the  dead  man,  I 
should  rather  regard  it  as  falling  into  the  class 
of  pictures  illustrative  of  the  frightful,  the  ap- 
palling, than  the  moral  sublime  ;  in  accordance 
with  the  definition  which  Allston  himself,  in 
his  introductory  lecture  on  Art,  gives ;  de- 
nominating the  frightful,  the  horrible,  the 
appalling,  as  among  the  sources  of  the  false 


106  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

sublime.  The  question  would  of  course  be, 
whether  this  comes  legitimately  within  the 
limits  of  this  class.  For  myself,  I  should  be 
inclined  to  place  it  there,  and  number  it  as 
agreeing  in  character  with  the  Martyrdoms  of 
the  Saints,  the  Flaying  of  Marsyas,  and  sub- 
jects of  that  kind.  But  of  this,  there  would  be 
great  difference  of  opinion. 

I  now  return  to  a  picture  already  named, 
"The  Bloody  Hand,"  from  Mrs.  Radcliffe's 
novel  of  the  Italian.  It  is  rightly  considered 
as  belonging  to  the  class  we  are  speaking  of. 
Mr.  Allstoh  himself  considered  it  as  among  his 
best  works.  And  for  a  picture  of  so  small 
size,  which  seems  really  unsuitable  to  a  sub- 
ject designed  to  awaken  the  emotions  of  theN 
sublime,  I  question  if  one  ever  was  painted 
capable  of  producing  impressions  of  so  power- 
ful a  character.  Emotions  of  the  sublime  one 
can  hardly  expect  to  be  excited  by  absolutely 
miniature  objects.  If  I  remember  the  picture 
aright,  it  cannot  be  more  than  two  and  a  half 
feet  by  eighteen  inches,  if  so  much.  The 
subject,  is  the  approach  of  the  Catholic  priest 


THE    BLOODY    HAND.  107 

Schedoni,  with  his  attendant,  Spalatro,  to 
murder  Ellena,  the  heroine  of  the  novel,  and 
their  sudden  arrest  and  horror,  at  the  appear- 
ance to  Spalatro,  among  some  of  the  dark 
passages  of  an  old  building,  of  a  bloody  hand 
which  beckons  to  them,  and  points  the  way. 
"  Give  me  the  dagger,"  said  Schedoni.  Spa- 
latro, instead  of  obeying,  grasped  the  arm  of 
the  confessor,  who,  looking  at  him  for  an  ex- 
planation of  the  extraordinary  action,  was  still 
more  surprised  to  observe  the  paleness  and 
horror  of  his  countenance.  His  starting  eyes 
seemed  to  follow  some  object  along  the  pas- 
sage, and  Schedoni,  who  began  to  partake  of 
his  feelings,  looked  forward  to  discover  what 
occasioned  the  dismay,  but  could  not  discover 
any  thing  to  justify  it.  "  What  is  it  you 
fear  ?  "  he  said,  at  length.  Spalatro's  eyes 
were  still  moving  in  horror.  "  Do  you  see 
nothing?"  said  he.  "I  saw  it  as  plainly 
as  I  see  you;  it  came  before  my  eyes  in  a 
moment  and  showed  itself,  distinctly  and  out- 
spread ;  it  beckoned  with  that  blood-stained 
finger,  and  then  glided  away  down  the  pas- 


108  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

sage,  still  beckoning,  till  it  was  lost  in  dark- 
ness." 

The  moment  seized  by  the  artist  is  when 
Schedoni,  startled  by  Spalatro's  expressions  of 
terror,  pauses,  and  straining  his  eyes,  tries  to 
penetrate  the  gloom  and  see  the  object  of  his 
attendant's  alarm  ;  while  Spalatro,  as  in  the 
case  of  Macbeth,  terrified  by  his  tormented 
conscience,  stands  stiffened  with  horror,  at  the 
sight  of  the  bloody  hand  which  beckons  him 
the  way  that  he  should  go.  The  whole  scene 
is  one  of  supernatural  horror,  which  certainly 
deserves  the  epithet  of  sublime.  The  figure 
and  expression  of  Spalatro  is  very  remarkable, 
expressing  a  terror  by  which  the  very  blood  is 
frozen,  yet  not  at  all  of  a  common  or  vulgar 
type ;  an  expression  you  would  not  have 
thought  of  but  recognise  as  very  nature,  the 
moment  you  see  it ;  the  expression  of  a  horror 
which  nature  could  endure  but  for  a  moment  ; 
which  drives  back  the  blood  upon  the  heart,  or 
freezes  it  where  it  is.  The  very  passage-way 
where  the  assassins  are  arrested,  has  an  air  of 
murder  about  it ;  the  effect  increased  by  a 


BELSHAZZAR'S  FEAST.  109 

spade  which  leans  against  the  stairs.      This 
picture  is  now  in  South  Carolina. 

As  my  last  illustration  of  this  part  of  my 
subject,  I  notice  Mr.  Allston's  large  picture, 
the  Belshazzar  ;  so  long  begun,  so  long  left 
unfinished,  and  so  often  inquired  after  during 
his  life  ;  but,  though  left  unfinished,  yet  in 
many  parts  equal,  to  say  the  least,  to  any 
thing  that  ever  came  from  his  hand.  He  had, 
on  the  very  day  of  his  death,  resumed  his 
work  upon  it  ;  the  paint  was  yet  fresh  upon 
the  tints  he  had  last  laid  on.  He  was  anxious 
on  many  accounts,  to  complete  it,  and  now 
probably,  would  soon  have  done  so,  had  his 
life  been  spared  but  a  little  longer. 

He  had  met  with  difficulties  in  his  design, 
and  had  found  it  necessary  to  re-cast,  and 
re-arrange  much  that  he  had  thought,  at  one 
time,  completed.  That  must  often  happen,  I 
suppose,  in  this  art.  The  final  effect  by  no 
means  appears  in  first  sketching,  or  even  in 
the  dead  color.  It  is  only  the  color,  and  in  its 
full  effect,  and  final  touches,  that  will  reveal 
the  real  force  and  character  of  the  design. 
10 


110  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

* 

After  all  this  labor  has  been  fully  completed,  it 
is  only  then  that  the  artist  is  conscious  of  errors, 
sees  his  mistakes,  and  at  the  same  moment, 
learns  what  a  heavy  burden  of  labor  is  imposed 
in  alterations  which  are  absolutely  necessary 
and  unavoidable.  Vast  labors,  therefore,  labors 
never  seen,  suspected,  or  known  by  those  who 
admire  the  picture  in  its  completed  perfection, 
have  to  be  undergone  by  the  solitary  student 
of  art,  which  have  many  a  time  caused  the 
head  and  the  heart  to  ache  and  filled  the  mind 
almost  with  despair,  ere  the  original  concep- 
tion can  be  brought  before  the  eye  of  the 
world,  in  the  complete  fulfilment  of  all  his 
ambition.  This  was  a  cause  of  mental  an- 
guish, more  than  once  or  twice,  I  have  reason 
to  believe,  in  the  instance  of  Mr.  Allston.  As 
soon  as  he  unrolled  the  picture,  on  the  arrival 
of  the  canvass  from  England,  where  the  picture 
was  begun  and  almost  finished,  (as  he,  at  one 
time,  vainly  thought,)  he  sought  the  judgment 
of  Mr.  Stuart,  as  that  of  a  critic  whose  know- 
ledge he  could  trust,  and  from  whose  honest 
severity  he  had  nothing  to  fear.  Mr.  Stuart 


ALTERATIONS.  Ill 

pointed  out  some,  which  he  deemed  funda- 
mental errors.  In  obedience  to  his  criticisms, 
the  force  of  which  Mr.  Allston  acknowledged, 
he  went  through  a  series  of  alterations,  con- 
nected chiefly  with  the  perspective  of  the 
picture,  which  cost  him  immense  labor,  and 
of  the  most  fatiguing  kind ;  and  which  a 
mechanic  draftsman  could  have  done  equally 
well,  under  the  least  instruction.  This  single 
alteration  required  six  weeks  of  unremitting 
labor,  compelling  him  to  make  more  than 
twenty  thousand  distinct  lines  in  chalk,  in 
circles  and  segments  of  circles,  in  order  to 
bring  the  whole  picture  into  correct  drawing. 
And  this  was  but  the  beginning ;  as  all  these 
new  drawings  were  then  to  be  gone  over  with 
the  ground  colors  and  the  final,  finishing 
ones.  Any  one  who  knows  but  little  of  the 
art,  can  but  faintly  guess  what  the  exhausting, 
despairing  labor  was,  which  all  this  exacted. 
And  it  is  not  likely  that  this  was  the  only 
one,  or  the  last  of  labors  of  this  kind. 

But,  had  he  lived  to  complete  the  picture, 
according  to  his  original  design,  or  even  ac- 


112  LECTURES    ON    ALL9TON. 

cording  to  his  changing  purpose,  one  cannot 
doubt  for  a  moment,  that,  through  mistakes 
and  alterations,  however  many  and  weari- 
some ;  through  new  ideas,  and  new  light 
constantly  breaking  in,  but  always  bringing 
him  nearer  to  the  goal,  he  would  at  last  have 
worked  his  way  to  a  successful  and  brilliant 
result ;  a  result  that  would  have  satisfied  him- 
self and  exalted  still  higher  his  fame,  exalted 
as  it  then  already  was.  And  yet,  one  may 
be  permitted  to  express  a  belief  that  even  such 
success  could  hardly  have  been  worth  the 
labors  and  vexations,  the  distresses,  in  short, 
it  cost,  nor  have  been  a  remuneration  for  the 
loss  of  the  many  smaller  pictures,  so  much 
more  consonant  to  his  taste  and  his  powers, 
he  would  have  given  to  the  world  in  the  time 
that  would  have  been  thus  rescued  had  he 
never  attempted  the  Belshazzar.  Still,  I  can- 
not accept  Stuart's  judgment.  It  was  his 
opinion,  given  to  Dr.  Charming,  after  he  had 
seen  the  Belshazzar,  and  with  his  knowledge 
of  Allston's  characteristics,  that  the  picture 
never  would  be  finished  ;  giving  as  the 


STUART'S    CRITICISM.  113 

reason,  "  the  rapid  growth  of  the  artist's 
mind,  so  that  the  work  of  this  month  or 
year  was  felt  to  be  imperfect  the  next,  under 
the  better  knowledge  of  more  time,  and  must 
be  done  over  again,  or  greatly  altered,  and 
therefore,  could  never  come  to  an  end." 
There  was  a  grain  of  truth  in  the  opinion, 
but  no  more.  It  is  ingenious  rather  than 
sound,  complimentary  rather  than  wise.  That 
Mr.  Allston  had  already  completed  pictures, 
large  ones  too,  requiring  labor  of  the  severest 
kinds,  and  considering  his  fastidious  tastes 
and  the  perfection  of  his  finish,  completed  in 
an  extraordinarily  short  period  of  time,  is  a 
sufficient  refutation  of  the  judgment,  without 
touching  the  philosophy  of  the  matter. 

It  might  be  thought  unfair  to  criticise  this 
picture,  as  it  was  left  unfinished  by  the  artist. 
But,  as  his  friends  have  made  it  the  property 
of  the  public,  by  placing  it  on  permanent 
exhibition,  there  can  be  no  impropriety  in 
speaking  of  it  freely ;  as  we  are,  indeed, 
bound  to  do,  in  the  case  of  every  work,  in 
letters  or  art,  from  which  lessons  may  be 
10* 


114  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

drawn  of  use  to  society.  They  certainly 
have  done  right  in  placing  it  on  exhibition  ; 
it  is  a  work  too  valuable,  too  beautiful,  too 
much  of  it  near  its  completion,  too  instructive 
in  many  ways,  to  have  been  rolled  up  forever, 
or  seen  only  by  a  few,  or  hidden  from  the 
common  eye.  And,  having  thus  rightfully 
been  made  public,  the  public,  on  their  part, 
do  right  also,  in  subjecting  it  to  the  most 
thorough  examination,  and  in  fully  express- 
ing their  opinions.  Every  possible  benefit  to 
art  should  now  be  drawn  from  it.  The  fact 
that  Mr.  Allston  sought  and  profited  by  the 
opinions  of  those  on  whose  judgment  he  could 
rely,  during  the  progress  of  the  work,  makes 
it  sufficiently  clear  that  he  regarded  it  as  so 
far  completed,  as  to  make  it  a  proper  subject 
of  criticism. 

The  subject  or  theme  of  this  picture,  styled 
the  Belshazzar,  is  too  well  known  to  need  to 
be  stated  in  the  Scripture  extracts  which 
describe  it.  It  must  be  enough  to  refer  to  it. 
A  briefer  description  may,  however,  be  con* 


SUBJECT  OF  THE  PICTURE.        115 

venient.  It  is  a  large  picture,  painted  upon  a 
canvass  sixteen  feet  by  twelve.  The  design 
of  the  artist  is  to  represent  the  effects  that 
would  be  produced  by  the  appearance  of  the 
man's  hand  coming  forth  upon  the  wall  in  the 
sight  of  all,  the  King,  the  Court,  and  all  the 
Magnates  of  the  Kingdom,  in  the  midst  of  a 
blaze  of  supernatural  light,  and  writing  on 
the  wall  of  the  palace,  the  well  known  words ; 
the  effect  of  all  this,  and  of  the  interpretation 
of  the  words  by  the  Prophet  Daniel,  upon  the 
multitude  of  the  people  there  present,  upon 
those  sitting  at  the  banquet,  and  upon  the 
royal  persons  themselves.  The  scene  which 
the  artist  attempted  to  present,  is  of  a  portion 
of  the  interior  of  the  Palace  of  the  King,  and 
the  architecture  belonging  to  it ;  the  King 
on  his  throne ;  the  Queen  and  her  attend- 
ants ;  Daniel  and  the  Astrologers,  in  the  front 
ground ;  the  Banquet  and  those  who  sit  at 
the  table,  in  the  middle  distance,  with  the 
people  who  crowd  a  gallery  above ;  then,  in 
the  remote  distance,  the  vast  interior  of  an 
Idol's  Temple,  with  the  Idol  himself  in  the 


116  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

centre,  beneath  a  blazing  circle  of  lights  ;  the 
Temple  floor,  ascended  by  successive  flights 
of  broad  steps,  up  and  down  which  the  people 
are  seen  hurrying  in  their  terror.  Such,  in 
few  words  as  possible,  is  a  description  of  the 
picture. 

The  first  observation  I  have  to  offer  on  the 
subject  is,  that  the  difficulty  Mr.  Allston  ex- 
perienced during  so  many  years,  (more  than 
twenty,)  in  completing  the  work,  seemed  to 
prove,  with  sufficient  force,  that  it  was  of  a 
class  of  subjects  to  which  his  genius  was  not 
suited.  He  was  not  a  man  for  large  pictures, 
and  a  multitude  of  figures.  Not  that  he  had 
not  the  imagination  requisite,  not  that  he 
wanted  any  of  the  intellectual  force  requisite, 

—  art  has  seldom,  in  its  whole  history,  pro- 
duced a  mind  of  more  brilliancy  or  compass, 

—  but,  that  he  preferred  another  kind  of  sub- 
ject so  much,   that  he   undertook  any  other 
with  reluctance,  with  too  much  looking  at  the 
amount  of  labor  involved,  to  be  willing  to 
grapple  with  it,  earnestly  and  heartily,  so  as 
to  go  through  it  with  any  higher  feeling  than* 


DIFFICULTIES.  117 

that  of  performing  a  duty,  or  doing  a  job, 
which  could  never  produce  a  grand  result. 
Especially,  considering  the  comparative  slow- 
ness with  which  he  wrought.  Yet,  they  had 
their  attractions,  and  two  he  attempted,  and 
others,  he  sketched.  Still,  he  was  not  for 
them,  nor  they  for  him.  The  artist  is  mir- 
rored in  his  works.  The  moral  idiosyncrasy 
shows  itself  in  the  picture,  the  statue,  the 
building,  or  the  book.  Mr.  Allston  was  es- 
sentially a  solitary.  In  Catholic  times,  he 
would  have  been  a  monk.  He  would  have 
been  another  Angelico,  Fra.  Bartolomeo,  Over- 
beck.  You  cannot  think  of  him  in  public 
places,  mingling  promiscuously  with  men  ; 
you  cannot  imagine  him  making  dinner 
speeches,  as  present  at,  seeking  or  enjoying 
crowds.  Yet,  a  few  he  sought  and  loved,  and 
none  enjoyed  such  society  more,  or  adorned 
it  more,  just  as  he  instinctively  shrunk  from 
the  many.  What  he  loved  and  preferred  in 
life,  he  did  in  art.  He  loved  most  and  ex- 
celled most,  in  single  figures.  He  sought  his 
happiness,  and  found  his  success  and  fame, 


118  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

in  the  class  of  ideal  forms,  —  in  his  Uriel  and 
his  Jeremiah  ;  particularly  in  the  female  ideal 
forms,  Rosalie,  The  Spanish  Girl,  The  Val- 
entine, Jessica,  Miriam,  which  especially 
captivated  his  imagination.  This  same  in- 
clination for  the  solitary  shows  itself  in  his 
landscapes,  as  the  Swiss  Landscape,  and  the 
Elijah. 

When,  then,  he  forsook  this  walk  of  art 
for  historical  pictures  of  the  largest  size,  it 
may  not  so  truly  be  said,  as  I  have  already 
hinted,  that  he  thus  grasped  what  he  was  not 
equal  to,  as  that  through  a  momentary  fervor, 
a  noble  ambition  to  make  real  a  vast  concep- 
tion that  filled  his  mind  and  set  it  on  fire, 
he  abandoned  a  path  on  which  he  had  long 
moved  with  ease  and  grace,  and  perplexed 
himself  with  themes,  which,  however  attrac- 
tive to  a  soaring  imagination,  were  not  so 
much  after  his  whole  heart  as  those  of  quite 
another  kind.  Moreover,  he  was  not,  now, 
expressing  or  uttering  himself,  as  before,  but 
rather  treating  a  subject.  He  was  in  the 
Valentine,  the  Rosalie,  the  Jessica ;  the  ma.n 


DIFFICULTIES.  119 

was  in  them.     He  could  feel  little  sympathy 
with   the  crowds  he  was  obliged  to  paint  in 
the  Belshazzar,  (or  only  here  and  there  one,) 
and  must  have  tired  of  them.     So  with  the 
architecture,   of  which  there  is  a  great  deal  ; 
so  too,  with  the  brazen  and  golden  vessels, 
the  king's  throne,  costumes,  and  other  objects 
of  still  life  ;  —  they  cost  infinite  labor,  and  he 
worked  them  up,  as  far  as  he  went,  in  the 
spirit  of  Gerard  Dow,  and  though  he  was  not 
disinclined    to    work  of  that  sort,    there   was 
too  much  of  it,  the  labor  and  time  demanded 
were  too  much.     He  must  have  felt  it  as  a 
waste.     He    was   not    the    person,    moreover, 
with  his  slight  frame  and  little  strength,  to  go 
mounting  up  ladders,  and    working   on  stag- 
ings,   and     using   brushes    large    as  a   house 
painter's.     It    is    really   painful    to    think    of 
Allston  laying  on  the  priming  coats  of  a  pic- 
ture like  the  Belshazzar.     Pupils  should  have 
done  all  that  work  after  the  drawing  had  been 
made.     And  even  when  he   came  to  the  fin- 
ishing,  it   became   only   so   much   the   more 
laborious,  and  that  was  work  which  none  but 


120  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

he  could  do.  For  every  minute  touch,  with 
his  taste,  his  eye  and  feeling,  which  pene- 
trated to,  and  was  satisfied  with  only  the 
whole  and  exact  truth,  he  must  have  found 
it  necessary  to  descend  his  ladder,  retreat  to 
the  proper  point  of  sight,  to  learn  the  precise 
effect  of  the  little  point  of  light  or  shade,  or 
color  he  had  added,  then  remount  to  his  po- 
sition ;  and  repeat  the  process,  day  after  day, 
month  after  month,  during  the  killing  heats 
of  summer,  and  the  killing  frosts  of  winter. 
I  can  conceive  of  nothing  more  painfully  toil- 
some, to  a  man  of  a  feeble  constitution.  No 
doubt,  long  use  would  enable  an  artist  to 
paint  on  this  large  scale,  as  easily  as  on  any 
other,  calculating  for  the  force  of  color  at  a 
great  distance,  and  doing  the  work  as  another 
would  a  cabinet  picture  close  to  his  eye,  but 
it  could  be  only  use,  that  could  enable  one  to 
do  it ;  and,  in  the  case  of  the  only  work  of 
this  character,  the  difficulty  must  have  been 
all  but  insurmountable. 

A  man  does  not  succeed  quickly  or  well, 
in  any  thing  he  does  or  attempts  against 


DIFFICULTIES.  12 1 

grain,  however  he  may  ultimately  fight  his 
way  to  it,  after  a  fashion.  I  think  that  to 
have  been  the  case  with  Mr.  Allston.  He  felt 
that  he  was  out  of  his  true  path,  and  that, 
after  all,  he  might  meet  with  but  partial  suc- 
cess, not  enough  to  satisfy  his  aspirations. 
By  such  convictions  I  believe  he  was  often 
disheartened  and  threw  off.  the  task  in  a  sort 
of  despair ;  and  mean  time,  soothed  and  de- 
lighted himself  in  some  Lorenzo  and  Jessica. 
This,  I  believe  to  be  the  true  account  of  the 
non-completion  of  this  large  picture,  for  so 
many  years.  Add  to  this,  there  was  evidently 
a  dissatisfaction,  on  his  own  part,  with  the 
design ;  not,  perhaps,  with  the  very  principal 
features  of  it,  but  with  very  important  parts, 
and  which  led  to  many  great  and  laborious 
changes.  The  subject  was  seized  only  par- 
tially. He  did  not  see  the  whole  at  once,  all 
the  diverse  parts  in  their  proper  relations  to 
each  other.  It  was  not  one  of  those  felicitous 
conceptions,  which  belong  only  to  minds,  of 
the  very  highest  order,  minds  of  a  universal 
sweep,  by  which  a  subject  is  seen,  almost  as 
11 


122  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

a  divine  intelligence  would  see  it,  where 
every  thing  is  as  if  it  could  not  be  imagined 
to  have  been  different,  as  in  the  designs  of 
Raffaelle.  He  was  ever  altering,  nor  at  the 
last,  had  he  apparently  reached  the  final 
limit  of  change.  It  has  been  stated  that  the 
appearance  of  Martin's  remarkable  work  on 
the  same  subject,  was  a  reason  why  he  aban- 
doned it ;  that  Martin  had  drawn  from  him 
the  most  original  feature  of  the  picture,  the 
proceeding  of  the  light  from  the  miraculous 
letters  of  the  inscription.  What  the  truth  of 
this  was,  I  do  not  know.  Only  it  seems  far 
more  likely,  that  the  causes  just  named  were 
the  more  real  ones  that  arrested  his  hand  so 
long. 

It  is  true  that  he  had,  once  before,  in  the 
time  of  his  youthful  vigor,  attempted,  and  in  a 
very  brief  period,  completed  a  great  historical 
work,  of  a  very  large  size  —  "  The  Raising  of 
the  Dead  Man  by  the  touch  of  the  Prophet's 
Bones"  —  a  picture  which,  with  some  faults, 
could  never  have  been  designed  or  executed 
by  any  but  a  person  of  very  remarkable 


THE    RAISING    OF    THE    DEAD    MAN.  123 

powers.  Indeed,  Mr.  Allston  never  manifested 
more  power  than  in  some  parts  of  this  work. 
But  it  was  too  much  confined  to  the  single 
figure  of  the  reviving  dead  man.  Still,  what- 
ever defects  or  faults  are  to  be  noted,  they  are 
all  abundantly  atoned  for  by  the  genius  that 
blazes  forth  in  the  wonderful  figure  of  the 
dead  man,  whom,  at  the  touch  of  the  Prophet's 
bones,  you  see  slowly  raise  himself,  a  dead 
body  just  deposited  in  the  tomb,  yet  begin- 
ning tp  move,  the  faint  flush  of  returning  life 
tinging  the  lips  and  the  cheeks ;  the  eyes, 
though  heavily  unclosing,  still  glazed  and 
dead ;  a  fearful  object,  and  only  too  true  to 
our  imaginations.  As  I  have  before  aimed  to 
show,  it  is  a  picture  that  comes  under  Mr. 
Allston's  own  classification  of  the  appalling, 
rather  than  the  moral  sublime.  It  was  a 
great,  difficult,  complicated  work,  and  called 
for  high  powers  and  vast  labor. 

But  the  Belshazzar  was  a  vastly  more  for- 
midable undertaking,  and  if  the  subject  just 
described  was  one  from  its  nature  little  suited 
to  his  mind,  much  less  was  this.  This  calls 


124  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

for  all  the  most  difficult  departments  of  the 
art,  makes  the  highest  demand  upon  the  mind 
in  the  conception  of  the  subject,  and  its  man- 
agement in  the  composition,  and  again  the 
highest  demand  for  the  artistic  powers  abso- 
lutely required,  for  even  a  tolerably  successful 
treatment  of  it.  The  subject  is  one  of  the 
truest  sublimity ;  the  miraculous  interference 
of  the  Deity,  by  a  Prophet,  to  declare  the 
speedy  overthrow  of  a  great  and  prosperous 
kingdom,  in  the  letters  of  fire  emblazoned 
upon  the  wall ;  crowds  of  the  great  men  of 
the  empire  in  their  appropriate  costumes,  as 
far  as  the  study  of  antiquity  could  supply 
them  ;  the  awful  Prophet  interpreting  the 
judgment  of  God  ;  the  terror  and  consterna- 
tion of  an  agitated  populace ;  the  magnificence 
of  a  royal  entertainment,  with  its  gorgeous 
array  of  gold  and  silver  vessels  ;  the  King 
upon  his  throne,  in  a  state  of  terror  which 
caused  the  joints  of  the  knees  to  loosen  ;  the 
Queen,  with  her  attendants  and  the  royal 
concubines  ;  the  Priests  and  the  Astrologers, 
equally  humbled  and  enraged  at  the  success^ 


DEFECTS.  125 

of  the  Jew,  in  interpreting  the  writing,  which 
they  had  failed  to  do  —  here  were  difficulties 
enough  to  appal  the  stoutest  heart,  and  almost 
daunt  the  loftiest  courage,  laying  a  peremptory 
claim  on  every  power  that  could  belong  to  the 
most  gifted  genius.  It  would  be  no  shame 
to  confess  a  failure  where  none  but  powers, 
almost  more  than  man's, could  succeed;  which 
asked  for  a  sublime  Poet,  not  less  than  a  sub- 
lime Artist.  But  this,  while  it  held  out  so 
brilliant  a  reward  to  complete  success,  was 
enough  to  break  the  spirit  beneath  the  intol- 
erable burden  of  an  unavoidable  apprehension. 
And  I  cannot  doubt  that  it  was  a  cause  of  no 
little  mental  suffering. 

I  shall  now  go  on  to  specify  two  faults, 
which  I  think  would  strike  any  one  in  exam- 
ining this  picture  ;  in  the  want  of  expression 
of  character,  and  in  the  architecture. 

There  is  a  want  of  power  in  the  expression 
of  the  various  passions,  emotions,  feelings 
which  properly  belong  to  the  subject,  or 
rather,  constitute  it ;  without  which,  or  with 
which,  erroneously  or  feebly  expressed,  such  a 
11* 


126  LECTURES    OX    ALLSTON. 

picture  must  fail,  or  would  scarcely  be  said  to 
exist.  Not,  of  course,  that  Mr.  Allston  has  not 
shown,  abundantly  even,  great  power  to  ex- 
press passion,  feeling,  through  the  language  of 
the  countenance ;  but,  after  all,  as  I  have 
already  mentioned  at  some  length,  it  is  a  lim- 
ited power,  not  universal,  and  does  not  satisfy 
the  demand  made  by  a  work  of  this  high  char- 
acter. I  do  not  say  that  it  might  not  have  be- 
come all  we  could  desire,  had  he  lived,  but  it 
is  not  so  now,  where  the  picture  seems  com- 
pleted. But  generally,  I  have  said,  his  power 
seems  limited  on  the  one  hand,  to  an  expres- 
sion of  the  stronger,  more  intense  emotions,  as 
fear,  terror,  malignity  ;  and  on  the  other,  to 
emotions  so  vague  and  shadowy,  as  to  leave  it 
doubtful  what  was  the  feeling  or  state  of  mind 
intended  to  be  conveyed,  or  whether  any  at 
all,  or  of  a  character  so  definite  as  to  be  capa- 
ble of  being  conveyed  by  art.  For  those  most 
delicate,  subtle,  but  yet  most  precise  shades  of 
meaning,  often  quite  complicated,  yet  still 
attended  by  no  uncertainty  as  to  their  sense — 
the  highest  intellectual  achievement  in  art  —  to  , 


EXPRESSION.  127 

be  seen  in  so  many  of  the  works  of  Raffaelle 
and  Guercino,  these  are  not  found  in  Mr.  Alls- 
ton  ;  not  in  such  perfection  as  to  be  a  charac- 
teristic. In  the  work  before  us,  the  grosser 
sentiments  of  terror  and  malignant  hatred,  are 
not  very  successfully  treated.  That  difficult 
line  is  overstepped  which  divides  a  strongly 
expressed  sentiment  from  caricature.  This  is 
obvious  in  the  Astrologers,  with  one  exception, 
yet,  we  may  feel  quite  sure  that  those  heads 
would  have  undergone  great  modification. 

In  regard  to  the  King,  the  artist  appears  to 
have  been  governed  by  a  determination  to 
avoid  caricature  of  the  sentiment  of  terror, 
but,  avoiding  that,  he  did  not  succeed  in 
substituting  any  other  in  its  place  that  could 
be  considered  as  successful.  The  intention 
seemed  to  have  been,  to  exhibit  a  person 
under  the  influence  of  a  fear  and  awe  so 
extreme  as  to  cramp  and  convulse  the  form, 
freeze,  stiffen  it  into  a  mere  rigid,  lifeless  clod 
—  an  almost  impossible  feat  to  perform  in  art, 
and  certainly,  not  successful  here  —  though 
here,  it  must  be  said,  that  the  figure,  as  it  is 


128 


LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 


now  seen,  had  been  painted  over  by  Mr.  All- 
ston,  as  if  dissatisfied  with  it,  and  since  his 
death,  restored  in  a  good  degree.  Apparently, 
with  his  conception  and  execution  of  the 
Queen  he  was  satisfied,  and  the  form  seems 
perfectly  finished,  in  a  costume  to  the  last 
degree  magnificent;  gorgeous  in  its  ornament, 
yet  in  perfect  taste.  The  face,  a  very  noble 
one ;  but  the  expression,  while  strong,  not  such 
as  you  would  look  for,  nor  natural  to  the  scene ; 
for  it  is  of  scorn  and  contempt,  rather  than 
of  awe  or  terror.  The  firm  grasp  with  which 
she  seizes  and  holds  the  hand  of  one  of  her 
attendants,  seems  to  confess  the  need  of  sup- 
port and  help  ;  but,  setting  this  aside,  and  she 
is  too  proud  of  heart,  though  'in  the  midst  of 
so  dreadful  a  scene,  to  express  in  her  counte- 
nance any  thing  save  utter  scorn  and  con- 
tempt for  what  she  holds  to  be  the  mere 
juggler  tricks  of  cheating  priests.  If  the  King 
sinks  down  in  dismay,  she  will  stand  up 
against  the  worst  that  may  happen.  In  all 
her  bearing,  she  is  every  inch  a  Queen.  And 
her  presence  alone,  with  her  queenly  beauty> 


THE  QUEEN  AND  THE  PROPHET.     129 

her  regal  pride,  her  womanly  grace,  as  she 
bends  her  dark  eye  on  the  Prophet,  is  enough 
to  spread  a  glory  over  the  whole  scene.  She 
is  the  only  person  with  whom  the  spectator 
sympathizes.  The  Prophet  Daniel  fails  of  any 
good  effect ;  the  figure  wants  not  only  expres- 
sion but  force  ;  the  form  is  good,  but  both 
head  and  face  want  grandeur  and  power.  The 
story  used  to  run,  that  the  great  Daniel  of  to- 
day was  to  be  represented  in  the  Prophet. 
But  there  was  no  so  good  fortune  in  store 
for  us. 

A  great  proportion  of  the  other  figures  are 
without  expression  of  one  kind  or  another. 
Those  at  the  Banquet  appear  to  be  in  a  state 
of  commotion  ;  some  terrified,  some  apparently 
fainting,  but  more  express  no  emotion  of  any 
kind,  which  seems  unaccountable  in  the  midst 
of  so  dreadful  a  scene  ;  those  upon  the  steps 
of  the  Idol's  Temple  are  flying  in  different 
ways,  as  if  not  knowing  which  way  to  turn  ; 
those  in  the  gallery  above  the  tables,  are  in 
the  same  mixed  state,  some  agitated,  but  more 
unconcerned  spectators  of  what  one  might 


130  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

suppose  could  be  witnessed  by  none  with  in- 
difference, and  by  most,  only  with  extreme 
terror  or  a  religious  awe,  by  which  even 
pagans  must  be  affected,  as  they  must  have 
seen  at  once,  that  the  apparition  was  beyond 
the  arts  of  their  Magicians.  A  group  of  five  or 
six,  near  the  centre  of  the  picture,  is  every 
way  very  remarkable  for  a  display  of  the 
Artist's  power  in  costume,  drawing  and  color. 
They  may  be  supposed  to  be  Jews.  Some 
are  seated.  None,  apparently,  concerned  in 
what  is  going  on.  One  is  in  a  state  of  won- 
der, or  some  such  emotion  ;  the  rest,  without 
any  expression  whatever.  It  is  true  that  some 
time  must  have  elapsed  since  the  first  coming 
forth  of  the  Hand  ;  for  the  King  had  first  sent 
for  the  Astrologers,  who  arriving,  and  after 
consultation,  failing  to  give  an  interpretation, 
the  Queen  had  then  come  in  and  advised  the 
sending  for  Daniel.  He  had  been  sent  for, 
had  entered  the  hall,  and  had  interpreted  the 
writing.  All  this  implies  the  passage  of  con- 
siderable time,  and  the  lapse  of  time  would 
naturally  lead  to  a  gradual  subsiding  of 


MARTIN'S   PICTURE.  131 

first  tumult  of  surprise  and  horror,  yet,  at  the 
same   time,   shows  that  at  that    very  precise 
moment,  selected  for  the  central  point  of  time 
of  the  picture,  when  the  Prophet  utters  the 
word   "  UPHARSIN,"   "  Thy  kingdom  shall  be 
taken  from  thee,"  there  would  be  almost  more 
than  a  renewal  of  the  horror  and  excitement 
on  the  first  appearance  of  the  handwriting,  on 
the  part  of  the  Babylonians  and  the  King ;  and 
on  the  countenances  of  the  Jews,  either  the 
deepest  awe  at  the  miracle  of  their  God,  or 
otherwise,  triumphant  glances,  or  shouts  of  joy 
at  the  predicted  overthrow  of  the  kingdom  of 
their  ancient  enemy.     They  could  not  have 
kept  their  seats,  motionless  and  apathetic,  while 
such  scenes  were  transacting.     I  can  readily 
understand  that  Mr.  Allston  must  have  wished 
to  avoid  a  mere  vulgar  expression  of  theatrical 
horror,  such  as  we  observe  in  Martin,  whose 
main  object  was  not  to  express  character  in 
its  finer  shades,  but  to  produce  all  the  effect 
he  designed  by  startling  contrasts  of  light  and 
shade,  and  especially  by  architectural  perspec- 
tive.    But,  while  he  certainly  avoided  that, 


132         LECTURES  ON  ALLSTON. 

he  fell  into  an  opposite  extreme,  of  presenting 
too  many  persons,  (principal  ones  too,)  figures 
and  faces,  without  any  meaning  at  all ;  for 
the  very  primal  object  of  such  a  picture,  when 
the  forms  are  of  the  size  of  life,  must  have 
been  to  express  the  character  and  sentiment 
proper  to  the  scene ;  by  which  the  whole 
occurrence  could  be  fitly  represented,  and,  if 
such  character  and  sentiment  are  not  express- 
ed, no  other  merits  of  any  kind,  can  atone  for 
the  loss.  In  the  great  masters  of  the  art,  for 
example,  Raffaelle,  it  is,  at  least  very  often 
the  case,  that  in  a  picture  where  there  are 
many  actors  in  the  scene,  of  various  ranks  and 
conditions,  though  all  do  not  utter  a  common 
expression  variously  modified,  the  effect  of 
which  would  be  monotonous  ;  all  express 
something,  and  with  great  preciseness,  not  ne- 
cessarily having  respect  to  the  main  thought 
of  the  picture,  but  to  many  things  quite  differ- 
ent and  remote  from  it;  we  find  many  groups, 
each  with  its  own  subordinate  interest.  This 
lends  great  variety  and  life  to  the  whole  work. 
This  is  Shakspeare  like,  arid  like  nature. 


THE    ARCHITECTURE.  133 

Bring  numbers,  a  crowd  together  any  where, 
and  though  by  no  means  will  all  be,  immedi- 
ately, or  alike,  or  deeply  interested  in  the 
common  object  which  brought  them  together, 
yet  all  will  be  interested  about  something ; 
and  a  thousand  by-plays  and  by-scenes  will 
be  transacting,  —  all  sorts  of  things,  the  most 
incongruous,  will  be  soon  going  on. 

Another  defect  in  this  great  picture,  of  a 
different  kind,  but  very  great  and  obvious,  is 
to  be  seen  in  the  treatment  of  the  architecture, 
which  constitutes  a  very  prominent  part  of  the 
scene.  It  is,  quite  obviously,  a  portion  of  the 
picture  in  an  unfinished  state.  But  no  kind 
of  finishing  could  have  essentially  changed 
its  character,  or  removed  the  objections  which 
exist  to  it ;  as  the  difficulty  lies,  not  in  the 
details,  but  in  the  very  forms  and  proportions 
themselves ;  in  the  very  force  of  the  color 
which  is  requisite  to  express  the  forms  as  they 
must  be,  to  be  in  proper  relation  to  the  other 
objects  of  the  scene.  The  final  glazings  may 
have  done  something  to  relieve  the  difficulty, 
12 


134  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

throwing  it  a  little  more  out  of  sight,  but  could 
not  have  removed  it.  The  fault  is  in  the  effect 
of  littleness,  meanness,  produced  by  the  rows 
of  small  columns  in  the  front  of  the  picture, 
of  not  more  than  some  ten  or  twelve  feet  in 
height,  looking  like  the  pillars  of  a  country 
meeting-house  gallery.  Such  columns  are 
wholly  out  of  place  in  any  royal  hall  or  pal- 
ace ;  especially  so,  in  any  Babylonian,  Assyrian, 
Egyptian  architecture,  and  utterly  inadmissi- 
ble where  ideas  of  grandeur,  sublimity,  are 
the  emotions  sought  to  be  raised.  As  a  work 
of  art  with  such  an  intent,  these  columns 
blast,  blight  and  kill  the  whole  conception. 
It  is  an  irredeemable  blot ;  a  fatal  blemish. 
Ever  so  many  trivial  forms  can  never  make 
one  grand  or  sublime  one.  You  may  plant 
columns,  or  arches,  all  over  the  Roman  Cam- 
pagna,  running  from  the  gate  of  the  city  to 
the  opposite  Apennines,  but,  if  they  be  but 
some  ten  or  twenty  feet  in  height,  they  will 
only  seem  the  smaller  and  meaner  for  their 
number ;  they  will  only  be  posts,  not  columns. 
The  great  Cathedral  of  Pisa  has  perhaps  three^ 


THE  IDOL'S  TEMPLE.  135 

or  four  hundred  columns  in  the  interior,  but, 
being  very  small,  there  is  no  effect  of  grandeur 
produced ;  it  only  looks  like  a  large  plaything, 
and  the  pillars  like  turned  sticks.  So  in  this 
picture.  Here,  the  columns  are  but  few, 
which  is  better  ;  but,  if  one  might  be  so  bold, 
they  should  all  be  swept  away  and  if  any 
thing  of  the  same  sort  in  their  place,  the  dim 
outlines  only,  of  two  or  three  vast  pillars, 
reaching  upward  into  a  gloomy  undefined 
height,  where  the  forms  are  lost.  The  ob- 
scure, the  unbounded  are  elements  of  the 
sublime,  never  the  clear,  and  sharply  defined. 

I  can  feel  no  misgiving  about  the  justice  of 
this  criticism.  But,  the  defect  which  is  so 
obvious  here,  is  not  to  be  observed,  but  a 
principle  the  very  contrary  carried  out  and 
with  the  greatest  majesty  of  design  and  effect, 
in  the  interior  of  the  Idol's  Temple,  which  fills 
up  all  the  back-ground  of  the  picture.  In  the 
remote  parts  of  the  picture,  in  the  boundless 
interior  of  the  Temple,  it  is  treated  in  a  man- 
ner truly  grand,  and  the  wonder  of  wonders 
is,  how  the  same  principle  could  have  been  so 


136  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

mistakenly  treated,  in  another  part  of  the  same 
work.  The  management  of  the  architectural 
forms  in  the  Idol's  Temple,  is  one  of  the 
grandest  features  in  the  whole  work.  There, 
there  is  sublimity,  indeed ;  where  are  seen 
columns  of  Egyptian  size  and  proportion, 
towering  upward  till  lost  to  sight ;  the  dim 
atmosphere  of  the  vast  chamber,  the  countless 
flights  of  steps,  up  which  the  crowds  are  hur- 
rying and  then  spreading  over  the  floors,  the 
mysterious  form  of  the  brazen  God,  with  the 
circles  of  blazing  light  above  ;  these  all  con- 
spire to  fill  and  excite  the  mind  in  the  highest 
degree,  and  prove  the  great  power  of  the  artist. 
The  perspective  there,  both  in  the  form,  the 
lines  of  the  architecture,  and  especially,  in  the 
atmosphere,  is  a  perfect  triumph  in  that  branch 
of  the  art.  Had  the  whole  been  completed  in 
that  spirit  and  power,  even  Martin's  picture, 
in  that  feature  in  which  it  has  most,  or  any 
merit,  would  not  have  exceeded,  if  it  had 
equalled  it. 

But  the  great  charm  of  the  picture  is  where 
Mr.  Allston  always  charms,  in  the  color ;  so. 


THE    COLOR.  137 

far  as  completed,  nothing,  to  our  eyes,  remains 
to  be  added.  It  is  the  color  of  the  great 
Venetians ;  rich,  gorgeous,  yet  chaste,  pure, 
and  harmonious.  Had  it  enjoyed  the  happy 
fortune  to  have  been  finished  up  to  the  Artist's 
conceptions,  it  would  have  been  a  picture, 
which,  for  particular  merit,  would  have  gone 
near  to  eclipse  all  that  had  gone  before  it, 
of  which,  at  least,  we  have  any  knowledge. 
For,  though  Paul  Veronese  may  have  left 
more  grand  and  fruitful  inventions,  and 
stamped  his  works  with  a  luxuriousness  of 
fancy  to  which  there  is  nothing  like,  and 
though  his  color,  also,  was  admirable  every 
way,  yet  he  never  worked  up  any  one  of  his 
pictures,  I  imagine,  to  that  minuteness  and 
perfection  of  finish  so  striking  in  this ;  which, 
though  so  large,  completed,  would  have  had 
at  once,  all  the  truth  and  delicacy  of  a  cabinet 
gem  and  the  breadth  and  grandeur  which  be- 
long to  colossal  subjects  ;  which  is  just  the 
truth  of  Nature,  whose  works,  though  ever  so 
large,  are  never  finished  with  any  the  less 
minuteness  and  perfection.  The  two  traits  are 
12* 


138 


LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 


compatible  and  consistent,  though  Art  so  often 
disjoins  them.  For  the  finest  example  of 
color,  in  any  part  of  the  picture,  I  should  refer 
you  to  the  group  of  the  Jews,  in  the  centre  ; 
all  in  shadow,  but  all  finished  to  such  perfec- 
tion, that  not  perhaps  a  single  touch  more 
would  have  been  needed.  Let  the  group  be 
carefully  examined  under  the  strongest  light 
that  can  be  thrown  upon  it,  it  will  bear  it  all, 
and  it  requires  it  all,  —  the  more  concentrated 
and  powerful,  the  better  you  will  see,  and  the 
more  objects  and  forms,  otherwise  invisible, 
will  come  into  view  and  add  to  the  effect  of 
the  whole.  Nothing  is  slurred  over,  all  is  done 
with  equal  fidelity  ;  objects  in  shadow,  as 
objects  in  light ;  and  it  is  in  objects  in  shadow 
done  with  this  equal  perfection,  that  the 
greatest  beauties  are  to  be  found  in  paintings. 
Many,  ignorant  of  this,  overlook  the  best  por- 
tions of  a  picture,  observing  with  any  atten- 
tion, only  what  is  forced  upon  the  sight  by 
the  strongest  light.  For  beauties  in  shadow, 
I  would  refer  particularly  to  the  same  group, 
and  to  the  hands  of  the  Jewess,  stretched  out,'* 


THE    HARMONY    OF    THE    WHOLE.  139 

as  she  bends  down,  expressive  of  religious 
reverence  toward  God  or  to  his  Prophet,  close 
to  whom  she  sits,  where  you  will  see  painting 
in  the  forms,  color,  perspective  of  the  palm 
and  fingers,  that  never  was  surpassed  ;  for  the 
color,  it  really  seems  self-luminous,  and  rays 
out  light,  as  it  were,  into  the  dark  all  around, 
an  effect  I  never  saw  elsewhere,  save  in  Titian 
and  the  Elder  Palma.  There  are  other  par- 
ticular points  of  excellence  in  color  worth 
noting,  particularly  the  head  of  one  of  the 
Astrologers,  who  stands  fronting  the  spectator, 
(which  is  not  more  remarkable  for  its  color, 
grand  as  Rembrandt's,  than  for  the  successful 
expression  of  the  deepest  malignity) ;  the 
Queen,  the  head  of  Daniel,  a  servant  at  the 
tables,  just  beyond  the  kneeling  Jewess,  and  I 
must  add,  the  brazen  and  golden  vessels,  and 
the  gems  that  glitter  on  the  fingers  of  many — 
this  is  all  admirable  work.  Of  the  great  art 
shown  in  the  color  of  the  great  Hall,  and  in 
the  Idol's  Temple,  I  have  spoken.  But  be- 
yond all  this  excellence,  in  particular  parts  of 
the  picture,  there  is  a  much  higher  one  shown 


140  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

in  the  tone  of  color  and  harmony  which  per- 
vades the  whole,  which  is  all  as  if  painted 
from  a  single  palette  and  at  one  sitting,  so 
exquisitely  are  the  hues,  the  lights  and  the 
darks,  balanced  and  blended.  The  idea  of 
contrivance,  in  truth,  does  not  suggest  itself; 
it  seems  one  grand  work,  not  of  Art,  but  of 
Nature,  where  all  must  be  true  and  right. 
The  color  affects  you  in  the  same  way.  All 
this  merit  so  palpable,  though  the  work  can 
only  be  said  to  be  partly  finished.  This  fills 
one  with  highest  admiration,  and  at  the  same 
time,  saddens  him  with  melancholy  regrets, 
that  so  noble  a  conception,  which,  had  life 
been  spared,  we  are  confident  would  have 
been  completed  in  the  same  spirit  of  power  in 
which  it  had  been  commenced  and  prosecuted, 
should  have  been  arrested  midway.  The 
effect  of  the  whole,  upon  an  appreciating 
mind,  is  that  of  an  exquisite  piece  of  music, 
like  the  intricate,  but  ever  harmonious  move- 
ments of  Beethoven's  Symphonies,  or  the 
melting,  blending  strains  of  an  ^Eolian  harp. 
In  closing  these  Lectures,  I  am  ready  to" 


CONCLUSION.  141 

acknowledge,  no  one  more  so,  that  I  have 
not  been  able  to  satisfy  myself  in  representing 
Mr.  Allston's  mind  and  art.  I  have  been 
obliged  to  omit  much  which  I  wished  to  say, 
as  I  have  said  much,  doubtless,  that  were 
better  left  unsaid.  But  such  fault  is  inci- 
dental to  all  writing  for  temporary  and  public 
purposes.  They  can  only  be  regretted ;  not 
apologized  for. 

But  I  am  quite  inclined  to  offer  an  apology 
to  you,  who  have  listened  to  me,  to  myself, 
and  to  the  venerable  shade  of  the  great  Artist 
of  whom  I  have  discoursed,  to  whom  I  have 
tried  to  do  all  honor,  and  who  now  perhaps, 
with  Virgil  and  Dante,  congenial  souls,  with 
Michael  Angelo  and  Raffaelle,  also  congenial 
souls,  but  not  more  so,  wanders  by  the  bank 
of  some  clear  stream,  beneath  grateful  shades 
in  the  Elysium  for  which  we  all  sigh,  for  ven- 
turing as  I  have  done,  so  many  observations 
on  the  last  unfinished  work  of  the  author  — 
especially  for  such  as  may  seem  to  have  borne 
on  the  face  any  blame.  I  declare  it  is  with 
feelings  of  severe  self-reproach  that  I  recall 


142  LECTURES    ON    ALLSTON. 

what  I  have  written  of  blame,  so  sure  am  I 
that  with  time,  he  would  have  brought  the 
work  to  a  perfect  close.  But,  when  I  have  at 
any  moment  uttered  such  phrase,  I  believe  I 
have  coupled  with  it  the  extenuating  clause, 
that  there  was  no  fault  that  might  not  be 
amended  ;  and  I  repeat  now  emphatically  the 
conviction,  and  it  is  only  what  is  due,  that, 
from  what  we  know  of  Mr.  Allston  and  his 
mind,  of  his  spirit  of  patient  perseverance,  his 
love  of  perfection,  and  search  after  it  in  all  he 
attempted,  it  is  quite  certain,  that  had  he  lived, 
he  would  have  surmounted  every  difficulty, 
triumphed  over  all  obstacles,  and  brought  his 
labor  to  a  perfect  and  brilliant  close.  It  were 
unphilosophical  to  think  otherwise.  I  am 
clear  in  the  belief 


NOTES. 


THE  following  is  the  Catalogue  of  Mr.  Allston's 
Pictures,  exhibited  at  Handing's  Gallery  in  Boston, 
in  the  year  1839,  and  referred  to  on  Page  50. 

No.  1.  — Date  1813. 
THE    DEAD    MAN    RESTORED    TO    LIFE,    BY 

TOUCHING     THE     BoNES    OF    THE    PROPHET    ELISHA. 

"  And  the  bands  of  the  Moabites  invaded  the  land  at  the 
coming  in  of  the  year.  And  it  came  to  pass  as  they  were 
burying  a  man,  that  behold,  they  spied  a  band  of  men,  and 
they  cast  the  man  into  the  Sepulchre  of  Elisha ;  and  when 
the  man  was  let  down,  and  touched  the  bones  of  Elisha, 
he  revived."  —  2  Kings,  chap.  xiii.  v.  20,  21. 

ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS,  Philadelphia. 

No.  2. 

JEREMIAH  DICTATING  HIS  PROPHECY  OF 
THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  JERUSALEM  TO 
BARUCH,  THE  SCRIBE. 

Vide  Jer.  Ch.  xxxvi.    Miss  GIBBS,  Boston. 


144  NOTES. 

No.  3. 

THE  TRIUMPHAL  SONG  OF  MIRIAM  ON  THE 
DESTRUCTION  OF  PHARAOH  AND  HIS  HOST 
IN  THE  RED  SEA. 

"  Sing  ye  to  the  Lord,  for  he  hath  triumphed  gloriously ; 
the  horse  and  his  rider  hath  he  thrown  into  the  sea."  — 
Exodus,  Ch.  xv. 

DAVID  SEAKS,  Boston. 

No.  4. 
THE  WITCH  OF  ENDOR  RAISING  THE  SPIRIT 

OF  SAMUEL  BEFORE  SAUL. 
Vide  1  Samuel,  Ch.  xxviii.    COL.  PERKINS,  Boston. 

No.  5. 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  FLORIMEL. 
Vide  Spenser's  Faery  Queen.    JAMES  F.  BALDWIN,  Boston. 

No.  6. 

POLYPHEMUS  IMMEDIATELY  AFTER  HIS  EYE 
WAS  PUT  OUT,  GROPING  ABOUT  HIS  CAV- 
ERN FOR  THE  COMPANIONS  OF  ULYSSES. 
Drawn  on  ship-board.    JAMES  F.  BALDWIN,  Boston. 

No.  7.  — 1805. 
SWISS  SCENERY. 
ISAAC  P.  DAVIS,  Boston. 


NOTES.  145 

No.  8. 
A  MOTHER  WATCHING  HER  SLEEPING  CHILD. 

JAMES  McMuRTRiE,  Philadelphia. 

No.  9. 

EDWIN. 

Vide  Beattie's  Minstrel.    ROBERT  GILMOR,  Baltimore. 

No.  10. 
BEATRICE. 

SAMUEL  A.  ELIOT,  Boston. 

No.  11. 

ITALIAN  SCENERY. 
SAMUEL  A.  ELIOT,  Boston. 

No.  12. 
THE  VALENTINE. 

GEORGE   TICKNOR,   Boston. 

No.  13.  — 1810. 
LANDSCAPE.    ITALY. 

EDMUND  D WIGHT,  Boston. 

No.  14. 
AMERICAN  SCENERY. 

Time,  afternoon,  with  a  south-west  haze.    EDMUND  DWIGHT, 

Boston. 
13 


146  NOTES. 

No.  15. 

A  ROMAN  LADY. 
EDMUND  DWIGHT,  Boston. 

No.  16. 
LANDSCAPE. 

WARREN  BUTTON,  Boston. 

No.  17. 

THE  EVENING  HYMN. 
WARREN  DUTTON,  Boston. 

No.  18. 

LANDSCAPE. 
Time,  after  sunset.      CHARLES  CODMAN,  Boston. 

No.  19. 

ISAAC  OF  YORK. 
Vide  Ivanhoe.    THE  ATHENJEUM,  Boston. 

No.  20. 

SKETCH  OF  A  POLISH  JEW. 
THE  ATHEN.EUM,  Boston. 

No.  21. 

PORTRAIT  OF  BENJAMIN    WEST,  LATE  PRESI- 
DENT OF  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMV,  LONDON. 
The  head  painted  in  London,  1814,  the  drapery  and  back- 
ground added  in  1837,  Cambridge. 

THE  ATHENJEUM,  Boston. 


NOTES.  147 

No.  22. 
AN  ITALIAN  SHEPHERD  BOY. 

ROBERT  C.  HOOPER,  Boston, 

No.  23.  —  1805. 
PORTRAIT  OF  THE  ARTIST. 

Painted  in  Rome.    NATHANIEL  AMORY,  Newport. 

No.  24. 

MOONLIGHT. 
DR.  BIGELOW,  Boston. 

No.  25. 

LANDSCAPE. 
POWELL  MASON,  Boston. 

No.  26. 
HEAD  OF  ST.  PETER. 

A  study  for  the  large  picture  afterwards  painted  for  Sir 
George  Beaumont,  now  in  a  Church  at  Ashby  de  la  Zouch, 

England. 

GEORGE  BANCROFT,  Boston. 

No.  27.  — 1811. 
COAST.  SCENE  ON  THE  MEDITERRANEAN. 

T.  WILLIAMS,  Boston. 

No.  28. 
A  SKETCH  OF  A  POLISH  JEW. 

J.  S.  COPLEY  GREENE,  Boston. 


148  NOTES. 

No.  29. 
A  SKETCH  OF  A  POLISH  JEW. 

THOMAS  DWIGHT,  Boston. 

No.  30. —  1811. 

A  POOR  AUTHOR  AND  A  RICH  BOOKSELLER. 
T.  H.  PERKINS,  Jr.,  Boston. 

No.  31. 

LANDSCAPE. 
REV.  DR.  LOWELL,  Boston. 

No.  32.  —  1804. 

RISING  OF  A  THUNDER-STORM  AT  SEA.   PILOT 

BOAT  GOING  OFF  TO  A  SHIP. 

S.  D.  PARKER,  Boston. 

No.  33. 
DONNA  MENCIA  IN  THE  ROBBER'S  CAVERN. 

COL.  WILLIAM  DRAYTON,  of  South  Carolina  —  Philadelphia. 

No.  34. 
PORTRAIT  OF  SAMUEL  WILLIAMS,  ESQ. 

TIMOTHY  WILLIAMS,  Boston. 

*  No.  35. 

ROSALIE. 

[NATHAN  APPLETON,  Boston.  t-'^jjj  i 


NOTES.  149 

No.  36.  — 1810. 

LANDSCAPE. 

ISAAC  P.  DAVIS,  Boston. 

No.  37. 

THE  TUSCAN  GIRL. 
DAVID  SEARS,  Boston. 

No.  38. 

JESSICA  AND  LORENZO. 
PATRICK  T.  JACKSON,  Boston. 

No.  39. 

THE  SISTERS. 
FRANCIS  ALEXANDER,  Boston. 

No.  40. 
THE  YOUNG  TROUBADOUR. 

Vide  Allston's  "  Lectures  on  Art  and  Poems,"  pp.  340,  341 . 
J.  BRYANT,  Jr.,  Boston. 

No.  41.  —  1806. 
FALSTAFF  AND  HIS   RECRUITS  AT  JUSTICE 

SHALLOW'S. 
WILLIAM  SULLIVAN,  Boston. 

No.  42.  — 1811. 

PORTRAIT  OF  THE  LATE  Mrs.  WM.  CHAN- 

NING. 
REV.  DR.  CHANNINO,  Boston. 


150  NOTES. 

No.  43.— 1799. 
LANDSCAPE. 

Painted  when  at  College,  Cambridge. 
GENERAL  SUMMER. 

No.  44.  — 1799. 
LANDSCAPE. 
In  possession  of  the  Artist. 
Painted  when  at  College,  Cambridge. 
N.  B.    These  youthful  efforts  are  exhibited  as  objects  of 
curiosity. 

No.  45. 

STORM  AT  SEA. 

The  ship  Galen,  in  which  the  Artist  returned  from  Eu- 
rope.   Drawn  on  ship-board. 

COL.  PERKINS,  Boston. 


THE  ROSALIE.  PAGE  72.  The  following  verses  by 
the  Poet-Artist  give  us  his  own  description  of  the 
Rosalie. 

"  O,  POUR  upon  my  soul  again 
That  sad,  unearthly  strain, 
That  seems  from  other  worlds  to  plain ; 
Thus  falling,  falling  from  afar, 
As  if  some  melancholy  star 
Had  mingled  with  her  light  her  sighs, 
And  dropped  them  from  the  skies ! 


NOTES.  151 

"  No,  —  never  came  from  aught  below 

This  melody  of  woe, 
That  makes  my  heart  to  overflow, 
As  from  a  thousand  gushing  springs, 
Unknown  before  ;  that  with  it  brings 
This  nameless  light,  —  if  light  it  be,  — 
That  veils  the  world  I  see. 

"  For  all  I  see  around  me  wears 

The  hue  of  other  spheres  ; 
And  something  blent  of  smiles  and  tears 
Comes  from  the  veiy  air  I  breathe. 
O,  nothing,  sure,  the  stars  beneath 
Can  mould  a  sadness  like  to  this,  — 

So  like  angelic  bliss." 

So,  at  that  dreamy  hour  of  day 

When  the  last  lingering  ray 
Stops  on  the  highest  cloud  to  play,  — 
So  thought  the  gentle  Rosalie, 
As  on  her  maiden  reverie 
First  fell  the  strain  of  him  who  stole 

In  music  to  her  soul 


152  NOTES. 

THE  SPANISH  MAID.  PAGE  77.  Mr.  Allston  ac- 
companied the  first  exhibition  of  this  picture  with  the 
following  ballad. 

FIVE  weary  months  sweet  Inez  numbered 
From  that  unfading,  bitter  day 
When  last  she  heard  the  trumpet  bray 
That  called  her  Isidore  away,  — 

That  never  to  her  heart  has  slumbered. 

She  hears  it  now,  and  sees,  far  bending 
Along  the  mountain's  misty  side, 
His  plumed  troop,  that,  waving  wide, 
Seems  like  a  rippling,  feathery  tide, 

Now  bright,  now  with  the  dim  shore  blending. 

She  hears  the  cannon's  deadly  rattle,  — 
And  fancy  hurries  on  to  strife, 
And  hears  the  drum  and  screaming  fife 
Mix  with  the  last  sad  cry  of  life. 

O,  should  he,  —  should  he  fall  in  battle  ! 

Yet  still  his  name  would  live  in  story, 
And  every  gallant  bard  in  Spain 
Would  fight  his  battles  o'er  again. 
And  would  she  not  for  such  a  strain 

Resign  him  to  her  country's  glory  ? 


NOTES.  153 

Thus  Inez  thought,  and  plucked  the  flower 
That  grew  upon  the  very  bank 
Where  first  her  ear  bewildered  drank 
The  plighted  vow,  —  where  last  she  sank 

In  that  too  bitter  parting  hour. 

But  now  the  sun  is  westward  sinking ; 
And  soon,  amid  the  purple  haze 
That  showers  from  his  slanting  rays, 
A  thousand  Loves  there  meet  her  gaze, 

To  change  her  high,  heroic  thinking. 

Then  Hope,  with  all  its  crowding  fancies, 

Before  her  flits  and  fills  the  air ; 

And,  decked  in  Victory's  glorious  gear, 

In  vision  Isidore  is  there. 
Then  how  her  heart  'mid  sadness  dances ! 

Yet  little  thought  she,  thus  forestalling 
The  coming  joy,  that  in  that  hour 
The  Future,  like  the  colored  shower 
That  seems  to  arch  the  ocean  o'er, 

Was  in  the  living  Present  falling. 

% 

The  foe  is  slain.     His  sable  charger, 

All  flecked  with  foam,  comes  bounding  on. 
The  wild  Morena  rings  anon  ; 


154  NOTES. 

And  on  its  brow  the  gallant  Don 
And  gallant  steed  grow  larger,  larger ; 

And  now  he  nears  the  mountain-hollow ; 
The  flowery  bank  and  little  lake 
Now  on  his  startled  vision  break,  — 
And  Inez  there.  —  He's  not  awake  ! 

Yet  how  he  '11  love  this  dream  to-morrow  ! 

But  no,  —  he  surely  is  not  dreaming. 
Another  minute  makes  it  clear. 
A  scream,  a  rush,  a  burning  tear 
From  Inez'  cheek,  dispel  the  fear 

That  bliss  like  his  is  only  seeming. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


QL    OCT171994 


APR  091995 
ARlb  LinnAR 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000676206     6 


•  •   ;  :  ;-i! -' .  ;: 


